by Susie Bright
5:00 p.m.—“Jim” and “Writer” taking cocktails on purple porch. More laughter.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 19, 2017
9:00 a.m.—“Jim” is weeding again. Must admit Jim is busy bee. Good work ethic. Perhaps of Hispanic origin?
10:00 a.m.—Now “Jim” is fixing fence. Nailing loose pickets.
2:15 p.m.—Now “Jim” is weeding sidewalk in front. Looks up, waves to me (on my second-floor balcony).
“Jim”: “How are you this morning, Mr. Nowicki?”
She is clearly exhausted from hard work. Where is that “Writer”? Probably snoozing away the day on his couch in his pajamas. Has gotten himself good deal. Beautiful young handyman/servant. Hot day, even though November always pretty hot. I make glass of Lipton iced tea and bring it to her. She thanks me.
While we are both in yard, school bus stops in front of park, down street, per usual. Same three miscreants exit, backpacks bumping on their backs as they chase each other down street. We can see them easily because “Jim” has clipped the hedge back.
They see me. “El diablo!” they scream—and throw their wrappers in “Writer’s” yard, laughing, running away.
“Jim” hands me iced tea. Vaults the fence like superhero (maybe gymnastics?) and runs down the street after them. Next thing I know she is dragging two of them by the shirt back down the street.
“Jim”: (giving them a shove) “Pick it up.”
They gather up wrappers.
“Jim”: “Apologize to Mr. Nowicki.”
They apologize. One is crying (younger one, maybe seven years old).
“Jim”: “Do you accept their apology?”
Me: “Yes.”
“Jim”: “If I ever see wrappers in my yard again I am going to hunt you little fu**ers down and kill you. Get it?”
They nod. She lets them leave.
“Jim” takes glass of tea back from me and finishes it.
3:30 p.m.—Note: Not sure what to think about this turn of events. What is your opinion?
4:00 p.m.—Note: “Jim” said “my” yard.
5:00 p.m.—“Jim” on porch drinking cocktail. “Writer” nowhere to be seen. Yard is spick ’n’ span, fence is fixed, but where is “Writer”? Not drinking tea this morning, not checking his “Little Library” and having his cocktail at five, per usual.
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9:00 a.m.—“Jim” chops up “Little Library” with axe. “Jim” is expert with axe.
“Jim”: (noticing me watch from balcony) “Hey, Mr. Nowicki, I know you hate this ‘Little Library.’ It attracts scumbags, am I right?”
Me: (I don’t know what to say, so just take photo [attached here].)
“Jim”: “Got any more of that Lipton?”
9:30 a.m.—I bring tea out (excuse to gather info).
Me: “What does the ‘Writer’ think of you getting rid of the ‘Little Library’?”
“Jim”: “I’m taking care of things now.”
Me: “But he checked that ‘Little Library’ every day.”
“Jim”: “Exactly. He needs to focus.”
Me: “I’d like a word with him.”
“Jim”: (repeating herself) “I’m taking care of everything now.”
Me: (not knowing what to say) “That’s nice of you.”
Jim: “I’m not nice. I’m family.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
“Jim” sits down on purple porch, drinks tea, proceeds to tell me long story. I can’t quote the exact words. But here’s a summary:
—She’s “Writer’s” sister! Half-sister.
—She comes from the first wife. (Means “Jim” must be in thirties, has that Asian thing where never seem to age.)
—The father called “Jim’s” mother “The Mistake.”
—Father abandoned them, father became fancy head librarian at research university, married second wife, had a kid, a bookworm: the “Writer.”
—“Jim” grew up in the library. Mother couldn’t afford babysitter so she would hide “Jim” in the stacks when she went to work.
—Both kids bookworms, but “Writer” became a “writer,” “Jim” became a dropout from Fresno School of Cosmetology.
—“Jim’s” mother died two years ago, “Jim” tried to see father. He rebuffed her.
Me: (after long story) “But why are you chopping down the ‘Little Library’ then? If your mother loved libraries? If you’re a bookworm?”
“Jim”: “I never said I loved libraries. I said I grew up in libraries. Books are bullsh**. Books are just a way not to see. You and me, Mr. Nowicki, we see. I know you know what I mean.”
Me: “But . . . you were stealing his boots.”
“Jim”: “It’s a joke we like to play on each other.”
Me: “But—”
“Jim”: “I like you, Mr. Nowicki. You keep your eye on things, make sure everything is on the up and up. Don’t even need to buy a security cam with you around. If I didn’t have that lemon tree in front of the window, you could see right into my house, couldn’t you?
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Post Message: Log Date, November 21, 2017
9:00 a.m.—“Jim” is power-washing the Prius. No sign of “Writer.”
11:00 a.m.—Screamer in park again. “Jim” marches out of house, carrying something. Walks into park, right up to Screamer, says something.
Screamer: “Fu** you, ma’am.”
“Jim” holds up something to his face. Screamer screams in a different way, holds eyes. Must have been mace. “Jim” says something else. Screamer stumbles out of park, hands over eyes, not toward McDonald’s, toward Emeline Public Health Services. “Jim” walks back into house.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 22, 2017
I haven’t seen “Writer” in four days, not in the morning, not in the evening. No tea, no cocktail. Has anyone seen writer? Private message me if you have.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 25, 2017
I’ve been doing some Internet research. Found an interview of “Writer” in Catamaran Literary Reader. Interviewer asks “Writer” about origin of his story “Rubber Boots.” “Writer” said parents died in a fire two years ago. Suspected arson, but no one ever caught. All that was left: father’s rubber boots on doorstep. Everything else burned. “Writer” used inheritance to buy house in Santa Cruz, etcetera. “Writer” says he is only child.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 27, 2017
6:00 p.m.—First time I’ve been able to post since I got home from the hospital. I see someone has made Good Neighbor!™ take down all my posts. Please read this now before they take this post down too.
I am not a pervert. If you have been reading my log, you know I was and still am concerned for the well-being of my neighbor, the writer who lives (or lived) opposite me, because said writer ha
s been missing since November 18. I documented all of this, before it was erased. Did anyone take a screenshot? Private message me.
On the night of November 23 at approximately eleven p.m. I donned black pants. Didn’t have black turtleneck but wore green.
I made my way downstairs, took long time because hip, per usual. Nobody on street as far as I could see. Forty-two degrees, cloudy. You remember. Very dark because city refuses to put more lights on our street to deter criminals. Cross street to gate of “Writer’s” house. Open gate very slowly, little jingle jingle jingle, but not much.
I freeze, wait.
Nothing.
Light is on downstairs at “Writer’s” house. I hold onto branch of lemon tree. It sways. I freeze again, nothing. With help of branch I duck down, behind lemon tree, right against front window. Living room is lined with bookshelves, but bookshelves almost all empty! “Jim” is boxing up all the books. Drinking wine. And by back door? Four heavy-duty green trash bags. Next to them, leaning against back door: the axe.
I continue to watch (I realize now that “Jim” was in underwear, no bra, black panties, thong-type, but at the time I didn’t notice because too busy documenting evidence).
Then “Jim” looks up. Seems to stare right at me.
I freeze.
She goes back to packing up books, humming and drinking wine. I am spooked. I grab branch, whole tree sways, don’t even care because, slightly panicked, duck under, come out from tree.
There’s “Jim.” Just standing there in hoodie, waiting for me. I scream. “Jim” maces me.
It hurts so much, like hot sauce in my eyes. I stumble around, can’t see, trip over tree root, crash to ground. My hip on fire. Scream for help. Some of you came out, I’m sure, but I couldn’t see.
Did any of you film this?
Next thing I know, ambulance. I’m screaming, “No, no ambulance!” even though I have insurance, waste of money. I’m screaming, “She murdered him! She murdered him! Just look in the house!”
Some of you must have heard me. I hear “Jim” telling the cops I was peeping in her window.
That’s all I remember, must have passed out.
Hip broken, surgery. Hazy, because drugged. Wake up at one point and there is Officer P., looming over me.
Me: “Did you search the house? Did you see the trash bags?”
Officer P.: “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Nowicki.”
Me: “Lucky? I broke my hip.”
Officer P.: “Lucky because once again your neighbor is not pressing charges. You need to leave this young woman alone.”
Me: “She’s not my neighbor. That’s not her house. You have to listen to me. Read my posts on Good Neighbor!™ It’s all there!”
Officer P.: “Mr. Nowicki, your neighbor is at a writer’s colony in Upstate New York. He’s left his house in care of his sister. We’ve received an e-mail from him.”
Me: “But then, why is she throwing out all his books? What about the trash bags? Did you look inside?”
Officer P.: “Mr. Nowicki, that’s not your business. You’re going to be laid up for a while, but after that, why don’t you go on down to the Market Street Senior Center. They have folk dancing, ukulele lessons, wood carving. Great rehab for your hip. Or you could take up tai chi in the park. Something to do, meet people. Keep you out of trouble.”
Now I’m stuck in a hospital bed in my own living room. Had a day-nurse come in. I asked her to help me get to the window but she refused. “No more peeping, Mr. Nowicki.”
12:00 a.m.: Alone, can’t sleep, stuck in hospital bed. Hip hurts. Spooked. Keep hearing strange noises, but may be the drugs.
Whoever is reading this before it’s taken down, please help.
Take screen shot. Call police. I will say this now: “Jim” murdered her brother. Find the trash bags. Find the axe. We need “Writer’s” disappearance investigated. I can’t do this alone.
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Post Message: Log Date, November 28, 2017
Hi, everyone, I just joined Good Neighbor!™ My name is Dave Nguyen. I’m writing from the East Coast, where I heard the sad news that my next door neighbor Mr. Nowicki has passed. We’re all sorry to lose a respected neighbor and member of the community. I wasn’t able to go to the services, but my sister went and told me two of his former students attended.
First off, I think we all need to thank the SCFD for keeping the fire from spreading to other houses. I don’t know what they are planning to do with the remains of Mr. Nowicki’s house, but I know you’ll all agree with me that it’s an unsightly mess (my sister says) and a sad reminder. I hope his relatives or the city takes care of this soon.
I have a teaching opportunity here, so will be relocating, but my sister will take care of everything at my house. She’s helping me get rid of some extra things, books, some knickknacks, CDs, a few paintings—so if you want anything, they will be in boxes outside the house before she goes to Goodwill on Monday. Feel free to stop by and pick up some of the loot. She’ll be watching for you.
FLAMING ARROWS
by Wallace Baine
Soquel Hills
My wife died.
That’s what I’d tell you if I sensed you wondering why I lived alone in this big house in the California hills, overlooking the Monterey Bay.
It’s true. Just not the whole truth. Two years ago, she left me—after seventeen years. She called from a La Quinta in Irvine. At some horribly early hour. Told me she wasn’t coming back.
“What about your things?” I said, a golf ball in my throat.
She sighed. “I have my things.”
She’d been gone for three days, and it wasn’t until after that phone call that I noticed she’d cleared out her clothes, her books—everything that belonged to her.
Then, a couple of months later, she died, right after our last meal together. Car accident.
We had met at Dharma’s, a hippie cafeteria she liked. I bought her a hot chai.
She wanted to talk about divorce. I was pleased to learn that she hadn’t yet contacted a lawyer. We were both civil. I felt so, anyway. Then she had to leave. Get over to Palo Alto for something. I didn’t know where she was staying. Didn’t ask.
Less than an hour later, she lost control of her Acura near the Summit on Highway 17. We had bought that car new. Couldn’t have had more than three or four thousand miles on it.
She nodded off at the wheel. Apparently. There was no autopsy and no one else was killed, thank God.
I had a few sleepless nights after that. To say the least.
It was the worst thing to ever happen to me. And the best thing too.
I choose to think of myself as a “mourning husband” rather than a chump. And prefer it if you thought that way too. It’s easier for everybody.
I love my house, the views, the aroma of eucalyptus when it’s hot out. I smoke weed whenever I want, watch porn on the flat-screen, eat at midnight, scream obscenities from the stationary bike at NBA players who take stupid shots. When I leave something on the kitchen table, it stays there.
Everything is perfect. But one thing.
The dog.
It’s not my dog. It’s the neighbors’. It barks. All the fucking time.
It’s not like the dog is right next to me. In this neighborhood, we prize our elbow room. But the barking reverberates through the canyon, arousing more distant dogs to bark, filling the air with mindless, assaultive bursts of aggression, each one landing somewhere in my chest. Morning. Noon. And night.
I used to complain about it to Amy. She’d stop what she was doing and tilt her head, as if to make an effort to hear the barking. “Oh, yeah. That’s kind of annoying.”
How could I have shared my life with someone like that? Who could willfully ignore the equivalent of flaming arrows shot at our house every hour of every day?
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It’s not annoying, darling. Running out of toothpaste is annoying. This is the kind of casual everyday brutalization that turns decent men into . . . well, people like me.
I’m not going to kill the dog. Sure, I want to. I’ve fantasized about it. Even aimed my rifle at it a couple of times. Wouldn’t be a gimme. I’d need a scope. But maybe with a little practice, it could be done.
It’s not the dog’s fault. I know that. I don’t hate dogs. It’s the people. Whoever the fuck they are.
They’ve lived in this neighborhood for years. Ten? Fifteen? I don’t know. Did Amy know their names? I doubt it. All I know is that it’s gotten worse since . . .
Nobody knows their neighbors around here. It’s not done that way. You might pick up fragments about their habits, their aggressions, their neglects. You make judgments, usually negative ones. You’ll see faces occasionally, through a windshield. Give a wave maybe. We get to know each other in personal shorthand: There’s leaf-blower guy. There’s Giants-fan lady. Maybe I’m wife-died guy. I don’t know.
But at the post office, or the Safeway in town, you don’t look up. Being neighborly means one thing back in Illinois where I grew up. Here, it means the opposite. You respect your neighbors by not acknowledging them. People want space, physically, psychically. You should give it to them.
The dog ruins all that.
I sit on my deck in the mornings with my coffee and nurse my rage. It’s what I do. I don’t let it slide. I don’t act out. I just absorb. The barking—sharp, high-pitched, weirdly metallic—comes in clusters. Sometimes it turns into a yelp, as if the dog is in a bear trap. Those are the bad days. I actually tracked it a few months back. Kept a log on a legal pad; did it for a couple of weeks. Saw no pattern, other than its daily relentlessness.
