— 22 Oct 2023 —

2023 Ain't happened to us yet …

— 22 Oct 2022 —

2022 Ain't happened to us yet …

  📖  

— 22 Oct 2021 —

Hose your ears here 🔊

I took a cold one over to my neighbor Jim who was in his [their pronouns] garage working on his truck, and we talked for a bit as he took a break from replacing the original Ford foamy cab bushings with polyurethane ones. When I greeted Jim with "Happy Friday," he said, "Happy Friday Sh*t." Then he explained that removing the old bushings is time-consuming as there is Loctite and corrosion galore, and so much torching and off-cutting and general hassling is required.

The Big Freeze of last February killed all of the palm trees, and my neighbor G-Rod had finally given up on his two thirty-foot monsters and taken them down to stumps, which was quite a bit of work. The dead fronds were infested with wasps, too. "Do you remember who planted those?" asked Jim.

"Sure," I said, "G-Rod did."

"He [G-Rod's pronouns] was over here drinking all my beer one night and tried to tell me it was the owner before him who had planted them."

"The previous owner was too busy stealing stuff from my front porch to have time for beautification projects; no, it was definitely G-Rod," I said.

"Why would he get confused about something like that? He was dead-set, but I knew it wasn't right."

"Hmmm. You know, when G-Rod first moved in, it was apparent he had done some goobling because the first time I met that G-Rod and told him my name, he had raised his brows and gave me a knowing smile and said, 'Don't you mean "Jacob," because I know that's your name.' He even did air typing with his fingers."

"G_ddamn," Jim said.

"I know. I explained all about first and middle names and how there were already enough people banging around the immediate family with the same first name, and so they'd decided to call me by my middle. But none of that mattered as he over-politely listened and then replied, 'Ok, sure, "Joe,"' making it plain as the beefy nose on his face that he didn't believe me. Like he thought I was creeping around under an akalias or something."

Jim shook his face over his can of beer and intoned: "Jesus Christ."

"That went on for months, G-Rod digging at me about my name, until one night we got snot-slinging drunk together, and he just came right out and told me how uncomfortable he was with his family living adjacent to a character running around using fake names and god-only-knows-what else. He said he'd done some pretty strong goobling on myself and hadn't found anything incriminating but that the lack of online information had left him still in a crepuscular light and that the entire situation was making him crazy as a Betsy bug. So I again explained that the family had gone nuts with the first name for three generations, and so my genitors had decided to call me by my middle name in an attempt at reducing label friction. Besides, going by your middle name isn't unheard of, etc. And ol' G-Rod finally seemed to get it. At least, he stopped being weird to me about it."

"Yeah, but even if you were giving out a not-on-the-birth-certificate name, why would he give a fvk? I tell ya this right now — you could tell me this minute you wanna get called 'Big Dan the Deer Taco Man' and that's what I'd call ya."

"I know, I know. It was strange. Some people get bent into a pretzel shape over what they've got their heart set on calling people."

"Shit. I don't get it."

"The reason I bring up G-Rod's name anxiety is that one of those days when he was over there trying to fell those giant palms without bashing in his roof, I pulled up bearing pizza and held out the box and raised the lid and offered him a slice. At first ol' G-Rod demured, but not for more than a polite second. Well, I guess the pizzador at the pizza store hadn't sliced all the way through every time because damn near half the pizza came up when G-Rod tried to lift a slice, and he got to pulling and wiggling and two-handing in there and finally freed like two-and-some raggedy slices. Then he smiled at me kinda stupidly and said, 'I guess we're going by the you-touch-it-you-take-it rule.'"

"That must've been the same rule he was using on my beers when he touched every damned beer fishing around in my Igloo," Jim said.

"But the only reason I bring it up is that after he'd horked like half my pizza dinner, he gave me a half-salute with his pizza mess and said, 'Thanks. Jacob,' going back to his dozen years old obsession about my name. He winked at me when he said it, too."

"G_ddamn! Are you shi++ing me?" Jim said.

"Nope. That first name/middle name/aka stuff had been put to bed well over a decade ago, and here it was back again. My point being that maybe G-Rod has suffered some kind of mental trauma as now he can't remember erecting giant trees around his place or that his neighbor of fifteen years isn't some sort of potentially dangerous fugitive trickster because they 'go by' their officially recorded middle name."

"He probably oughta go the hospital and get his brains scanned," said Jim.

"Maybe. I dunno …"

---

Jim asked me if I'd seen the the new orange tabby with the giant swinging nuts around the neighborhood. We agreed that though the new cat was skittish, he was in no way wild as he communicates using meows, which feral cats don't do. Jim said that the New Orange Tabby would even come and hang out on the porch, though petting was not something his cat self was interested in just yet. But then Jim told me that he thinks the coyotes took new orange tabby:

"It was last Saturday night. I don't know if you heard 'em, but the coyotes had started to carry on because of the sirens. I saw them right there on the edge of the field, and I heard a cat cry out, but only once. Then I saw one of them carrying a cat in his jaws as he headed back out into Dyer's land. It wasn't Mr. R. because he's been around since then."

I had been waiting for New Orange Tabby to make another appearance on my porch. I enjoyed watching him enjoy the tuna feasts I spooned out for him. He had become trusting enough that he no longer waited for me to step away before tucking into the fish. But it has been a week and I think Jim is right — the coyotes took him.

I only knew New Orange Tabby for a couple of weeks, but him becoming food for the coyotes even as the tuna (and mice, no doubt) were food for him, has me feeling sad and sad and sad.

😿
⚰ R.I.P. New Orange Tabby. ⚰
😿

But then the "A/C, please don't pee on me" van arrived, and I left Jim to escort the repairperson through his home so Jim could point out hotspots to them and chill the dogs out so they would understand their outside unit wasn't under assault and stuff.

[vol: ?]

  📚     🚪   10-22-2021