To the MAX, Push the envelope, go extreme, and other cliches
Wednesday, April 21, 2010 at 8:24PM It's spring. That means that around here, there is finally an end to the hurried dash to a frozen car. We have emerged from our long winter's naps, blinking at that weird glowing thing in the sky.
It means we remember that we have neighbours.
My neighbours are an assorted lot. On one side I have the New Neighbours, who replaced the Always Outside People last summer. They've been rather disappointingly normal. In the back I have Nice Neighbours, who we sadly don't have much to do with, and Bitchy Lady, who once suggested that maybe people with dogs should consider living in the country, and maybe I should take my dog back to the pound because she barks too much. We also have Midnight Carpenter, who I've never exchanged more than a few pleasantries with, but who uses the power saw in his garage at all hours of the night (though I've never actually seen him build anything. You'll see me on the local news in a few years protesting, "But he seemed so normal!").
Across the street is Ninja Neighbour, who moved in last year but who I've never seen, Two Yappy Dogs and Single Guy. Down the street is Neighbourhood Gossip Information Hub and the halfway house for problem children, like the one who rides his bike up & down the alley to taunt my dog.
And directly on the other side of us are the Passive Aggressive Octogenerians, Max and Gertie. They do things like leave plastic buckets of pinecones next to our house in the hopes that we'll pick the rest of ours up, and duct tape my solar lights back onto their posts when they fall off and I don't re-attach them for more than two days. But they're also super sweet and Gertie adores my kid, and I'm fairly certain Max changed the lightbulb in the porch light one time when hubby was too lazy we didn't get around to it. It's 12 feet in the air, you guys. He's 87.
That Max. Ah, Max. Max is what you would very diplomatically call A Character. He's the kind of guy that would be AWESOME to have as a grandfather or great-uncle, but, uh...not so much as a neighbour.
The first summer we lived in this house, there was a minor infestation of tiny ants. We didn't have air conditioning, so we slept with the window open. Following the arrival of the ants, I was awoken every morning promptly at 6am by the sound of Max standing on his deck, in his underwear, flicking them off the metal railing with a flyswatter: ftwing! ftwing! ftwing!
Occasionally he'd wear a shirt. You know, out of consideration.
When we got the dog, the Always Outside People nodded and said, "Ah, good, it will keep Max out of your yard." I was a little confused. I'd never seen Max in our yard.
And yet the following morning, I looked up from my Cheerios to see him shuffling around in our front yard, picking weeds. Out of MY lawn. In his underwear.
But despite his penchant for wandering the neighbourhood in his skivvies, Max is quite the snazzy dresser. He and Gertie have a pretty hoppin' social life; they go to the casino almost every day, they have friends over for coffee, they go out for dinner. And they are always dressed to the nines. Gertie gets done up in slacks and a nice blouse like a regular little old lady, and Max channels a 1940s pimp.
After a few months of living here, I wandered into the kitchen to see hubby peering over the bottom of the piano window.
"Psst," he said, "Come here, you have to see this!"
So we both poked our noses over the ledge to secretly observe Max, who was standing on his front step waiting for Gertie. He was wearing lime green pants, a rhinestone belt buckle the size of my head, and a T-shirt with his own picture on it, emblazoned with the caption, "Life of the Party!"
No kidding.
Max keeps several classic cars and polishes the Cadillac up to drive to the store, which is less than half a block away. He calls me 'sweetie' and offers to help with the gardening if he thinks he'll catch a glimpse of cleavage when I'm bending over weeding. He treats the entire block like his own yard, but when someone pointed out that the roof over his porch was collapsing, he shrugged and said, "Enh, not my problem."
He's a fucking nutbar, but he's hilarious.
When I'M 87, I'm going to be a Max.
Or possibly just the nutbar part.
What about you?
Reader Comments (18)
All I know is that I want a shirt like that like, NOW. And I'm going to wear it out the next time Kel drags me to the bar too.
I'm going to be a curmudgeon. In my underwear.
I don't know about wandering the neighborhood in my undies. Pick your own damn weeds. LOL!
I will be like Ninja neighbor instead.
Hugs
SueAnn
Having neighbors scares me. We live in an apartment complex where the most interaction any of us have is to say "hi" when passing on the steps.
I wouldn't mind having a Max, though.
We're unfortunately heading into Autumn here in SA and that fucking pisses me right off.
I can tell you what I don't want to be when I'm 87. I don't want to be the smelly cat lady.
I've often thought that bitchy ladies should consider living in the country. Of course, I haven't yet suggested it to one, for fear of a slap.
I love Max & Gertie. Really. My highest ambitions are to be them when/if my husband & I grow up.
I don't think I'll be waiting to get that t-shirt, though.
I don't even know my neighbors. I am moving soon, so hopefully I will have a Max when I get there. Although I will be moving out to the country, so my neighbors won't be too close.
I'm the neighbor that stands in the yard and yells at my kids.
Growing up in the country, our neighbors were too far away to really be neighbors. But they were all nice farm folk who didn't have TOO much of a problem with a troupe of children who plundered, erm, wandered their crop fields.
Now that I'm older, we live in an apartment where most people are Ninja Neighbors. If I don't turn into a cat lady, I'll most likely be Max. Or the female equivalent anyway. But most likely nude, because let's face it, underwear is just another societal convention to keep us controlled.
I have yet to meet anyone on my floor of my apartment. But perhaps it is because they are scared of me after hearing me serenade my cat day and night with my "stellar" singing.
I'm not sure I have neighbors..I never see them if I do. I would enjoy a nutbar like Max..maybe I could borrow him a couple days a week..
First of all, I need a neighbor who will weed my yard! I don't care if he's in his underwear or not.
Second of all, your neighborhood cracks me up. I like that you have descriptions for everyone. Are you like me and don't actually know their names? LOL.
I'm going to be the yelling at all the kids to get off my lawn! Cause it'll be eccentric and acceptable when I'm 85. Now it's just weird.
Very colorful! When I'm 87 I'm going to be the crochety woman who yells at kids who step on my lawn. Maybe I'll own a beebee gun.
Max sounds fantastic. Having just spent a couple of days with a variety of *ahem* eccentric older people, Max is a welcome variety of kooky. At my niece's birthday party last weekend her great-grandmother kept spitting out party snacks that didn't meet her approval...like in the sink and directly on the communal dishes! It was like being in the twilight zone. I hope to be one of those old people who can suck it up, swallow the sugar cookie, then politely throw the rest away...in the trash. Send Max over to our house, we have hella weeds and the old guy in his undies gives the neighbors something to talk about.
When i am 87 (Well i actually thought 80) my best friend and i are going to (Have made a pact to) take up smoking and bourbon sipping and sitting on my front porch hosing neighborhood dogs that try to pee on the fence... (We will also dress snazy)