Bad neighbours part 3: Gangnam – Banyo style

My new neighbour, a man I had never met was standing bare-chested in my driveway.  He wanted to fight me.

 

‘Stop throwing shit on my roof,’ he said, pointing at me.

 

The accusation was confusing and scary.  I wasn’t throwing anything on his roof.  There were five mates inside drinking and playing pool and they weren’t throwing shit on his roof either.  It’d been twenty years since I last threw a clumsy punch in anger and the man looked like he didn’t mind fighting. 

 

‘I’m not throwing shit on your roof,’ I said.

 

He didn’t believe me.  ‘Someone has been throwing shit on my roof.’

 

‘No one here is throwing shit on your roof,’ I said.  

 

‘Don’t lie to me mate,’ he said.  ‘I’ve been in gangs for twenty years.  I can have ten people here in an hour.’

 

‘What,’ I said.  Somehow I walked toward him, wanting to know if being in a gang made him tougher.  Instead, face to face, I assured him no one was throwing shit on his roof.  Then I offered a warning. 

 

‘I’ve got five people inside right now.  Can you see any of them throwing shit on your roof?’

 

Now it was his turn to look confused.  Perhaps he had been in gangs for twenty years.  He had the tattoos for it.  He looked Maori and my knees started to shake. 

 

‘I don’t even know you,’ he said.

 

‘That’s right, so why would I throw shit on your roof?’

 

‘I’m not saying you were doing it.’

 

‘Yes you did, you said I was throwing shit on your roof.’

 

By that stage, my brother Nick was behind me.  My mate Adam (who stands 6’5”) was two feet behind Nick.  The situation was over.  My neighbour left without the issue escalating, which was lucky.

 

It might’ve been an interesting fight for one or two punches.  My neighbour wouldn’t have needed to call his mates and mine would’ve carried me inside and applied ice to my face.

 

It was his line: I’ve been in gangs for twenty years that pricked my ego.  Initially he wanted to fight me then mentioned backup for a simple job.  It was also the stupidity.  The wind was howling madly that day, about fifty kilometres an hour.

 

It was carrying leaves and blowing the palm trees in his yard, the fronds clicking madly.  If my neighbour had stood outside for two minutes he might’ve seen mates in my yard but none of them launching anything at his roof.  He would’ve seen the fronds scraping his roof and figured there was no need to wander to my house and offer a warning.

 

He’d been living next door for a few months.  We’d never talked until that day.  About two years went past and we avoided each other, not a word spoken.  His generosity with a lawn mower made a mockery of the tension.  He mowed a meter on my side and I did the same for him, using the whipper snipper too.  It was a truce, total silence, but we went the extra yard for each other.

 

Aside from the threat of violence he was actually the best neighbour anyone could want.  He was deathly quiet.  The people he socialised with were quiet.  There was no extravagant yelling during State of Origin games or rugby union Tests between New Zealand and Australia.  He didn’t play loud music or host regular parties.

 

He kept the lawns neat and his puppy, a staffy-cross called Hippy never barked.  She was fond of pulling the washing off the line, which provided a few humorous moments.  One of my dogs, Shilo, used to pullwashing off the line and tear it up, forcing me to hang towels and jeans sideways.

 

If I saw Hippy biting the washing and my neighbour wasn’t home, I’d tell her to stop.  When he found ruined towels and shirts on the ground there was no yelling or retribution.  Hippy didn’t get whacked.  He simply picked them up and threw them out.

 

That’s a man who understands dogs. 

 

The house he lived in has long been a rental property.  It was small and old, particle board instead of weatherboards.  The single car garage was rusting.  The man who owned the house, a former railway worker, was going to build his dream home on the property one day.  That man is now too old for a dream home. 

 

I figured it was still a rental because I never saw a for sale sign out the front.  It was the kind of home a rich person would buy and tear down, to build their dream home.  It was also the kind of home someone would buy just to get into the market.

 

I thought my neighbour would eventually move out, like all the others had, but a few months ago a new driveway was concreted from the street to the back of the house.  Not long after Kristine talked to him for the first time, a brief conversation about Angus.

 

‘How old is your boy,’ he asked.

 

‘Four months,’ Kristine said.  ‘He’s a handful.’

 

‘Wait until he’s 21 and still living at home,’ he said.  ‘My daughter has moved in with me again.’

 

They laughed and talked about Hippy.  Kristine suggested he hang his washing sideways.

 

When Kristine relayed the conversation, I was glad I wasn’t there.  I didn’t want to talk to him.  She wanted to know why I was still holding a grudge.

 

‘It’s hard faking a chat with someone who wanted to punch me the first time we met,’ I said.

 

Kristine sighed.  ‘Let it go, Bill,’ she said.  The reference to my father was deliberate.  She has long suggested I am very similar, that my refusal to talk to him was something Bill would do.

 

‘I’m more like Patsy,’ I said.

 

‘No you’re not.’

 

‘He said he was going to get ten guys to come over and sort me out.’

Kristine sighed and walked away.

 

About a month ago, while I was mowing foot high grass beside the garage, my neighbour was next to the fence, raking up a pillow torn to pieces by Hippy.

 

‘Hey,’ I said.

 

‘Hey.’

 

We stopped working.

 

‘How are you doing,’ I said.

 

‘Good.’  He looked at me through the palings.  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that day we first met,’ he said.

 

I told him not to worry about it.  ‘I wouldn’t tolerate my mates throwing things on someone’s roof,’ I said.

 

‘I know you wouldn’t.’

 

We shook hands.  I gave him sweet potato.  He gave me baby toys.  We wave to each other now and say hi.  Being friendly takes a lot of pressure off living, which is what we all want.

 

We all want to move about our house without fear of upsetting the neighbours.  We all want what they want, so that should make for a happier existence.

 

It’s a shame it doesn’t.  My neighbourhood has always been interesting, but it’s no more interesting than any other neighbourhood. 

 

Across the road, two men in their late fifties and early sixties share a small house.  They’re not brothers or cousins or any kind of relative.  They have three cats and a magnificent garden with lots of flowers.  They grow vegetables in the backyard.  In summer they get around in shorts far too tight.

 

Three years ago someone stole their prized collection of bonsai trees.  Their new collection is padlocked.

 

I can’t give you any more hints about their lifestyle, and I couldn’t care less about it.

 

They’re inoffensive and quiet.  I like them.  We chat regularly, at least three times a year.  Back in 2003, just before I moved out, they were in my yard digging up gerberas and marigolds from my flower bed. 

 

Perhaps those plants, almost ten years on, are still growing in their garden.

 

 

The ghost of Basil

 

 

When Basil was taken away his pathetic house was put up for sale.  The spiel was void of speculation: The house is in poor condition.  The best scenario is to remove it and build your dream home. 

 

It was listed at $320,000.  The average price for homes in Banyo is $457,000.  Basil’s house was a steal.  Kristine and I fantasised about buying it.  My mate Adam did too.  A woman on Musgrave Road offered $270,000 and was rejected.  It took a month to sell and the price was apparently $290,000.

 

Most people expected it to be torn down but the new owners worked it over, a new roof, fence, windows, lights, floor coverings and paint, inside and out.  The old kitchen was removed. 

 

They spent $15,000 and the house looks much better. 

 

My new neighbour isn’t always home.  I’ve never talked to him.  He’s obviously from the country, because he occasionally lights a fire in the backyard, drinking beer and playing guitar.  I think he works in a mine, because he’s often gone for weeks.

 

A few months ago I hosted two mates for beers, pool and roast meat.  We had music on, not loud but upwards of silent.  The night was over at 10:30pm.  When Kristine got up to feed Angus about midnight, our newest neighbour imposed himself.

 

He was outside, shouting hey, hey.  When Kristine peaked through the curtains, he yelled what the fuck are you looking at and she slid the curtains shut, scurrying to bed.  She tried waking me but I was all partied out.

 

Hours afterward he sat in the backyard by the fire, playing drums and guitar.

 

The next morning there was a bottle of fanta on the fence.  We couldn’t figure it out.  I never trimmed down the fence post when I installed it, as you can see from the photo.  Our neighbour would’ve had to stand on something to put the fanta on the post. 

 

Adam, who stayed the night, didn’t hear the late night music or the rant.  He was mystified.  ‘It’s like he’s been possessed by Basil’s ghost,’ he said.

 

Kristine asked what to do about the fanta.  I Googled fanta on fence to make sure we weren’t about to be assassinated.  Even Google doesn’t know what fanta on the fence means.  So we left the fanta where it stood.

 

Over the next month the orange liquid turned yellow.  The neighbour had been home.  He must’ve seen it because it stood out like a beacon.  Perhaps he was drunk the night he put it there and couldn’t remember doing it.

 

Perhaps he thought I put the bottle on the fence. 

 

Kristine wouldn’t move it for fear of getting assassinated.  I don’t move it either.  We got used to looking at it.  I searched the internet again for possible links and found nothing.

At the time I was living in two houses while working at Nambour.  A common question during phone calls to Kristine, is it still there, received the same answer.  I mentioned it to a lot of people and none had any answers.

 

Five weeks after the fanta was plonked on the fence, Kristine found it in our yard.  She put it in the bin and didn’t ask any questions.  I didn’t either.  The fanta was on a level post.  The day hadn’t been windy.

 

Like Humpty Dumpty, the bottle must’ve pushed it, which must mean our neighbour thought I put it there.

 

Recently, he has lost his shit, worse than the night he put the fanta on the fence.  It left me wondering if Adam was right, that the neighbour had been possessed by Basil’s ghost.

 

We’ve endured loud outbursts, FUCKING SHUT UP, FUCK UUPP.

 

When a neighbour screams like that, it freezes you.  I watched the house from the bedroom window and recoiled at the anger, FFUUCCKK, FFUUCCKK.  The man has two dogs.  I thought he was yelling at them.

 

The outbursts became more common, almost daily before I figured it out.  A poodle-cross lives across the road.  Two shitter lapdogs live beyond the intersection, about fifty metres away.  The dogs like to bark, all day, at each other and anyone who walks past. 

 

Our neighbour couldn’t handle it.  One afternoon when the dogs barked incessantly, he ran outside, screaming.

 

‘You’ve been barking all afternoon,’ he yelled.  ‘Shut the fuck up.  Fucking shut up.  Fucking shut up.’

 

The dogs barked at the noise.  He got in his ute and squealed corners out of Banyo, leaving his dog locked inside.  It howled madly for hours.

 

Our neighbour might’ve fled the noise, but his dog led the noise in his absence.

 

I’ve hardly heard any of the dogs since.  Perhaps he called the council, just like Basil used to do.  It is obvious he sleeps during the day, and those fucking dogs would bark nonstop for hours, enough to drive anyone mad.

 

Since the dogs have been quiet, our neighbour has been quiet, and peace has been restored to the galaxy once again, just as the prophecy suggested.

 

My neighbours aren’t all difficult.  Brett who lives behind me is the best neighbour I have.  Honest and trustworthy, he called the police a few times when Basil misbehaved.  Over the years Brett has watched over my house when I’ve been away.  If he sees someone in my yard he lets me know.

 

Two years ago he asked if he could trim the fig tree.  A central feature at the back of my yard, the fig branched out twenty metres across my yard and ten into his.  When I said I’d cut it down he shook his head.

‘Don’t do that for me,’ he said.

 

I loved the fig but it had to go.  No one should have a fig tree in their yard unless they’re on acreage.  A garage now sits where the fig used to be.

 

Harry lives directly across the road.  He’s about ninety.  Eighteen months ago his wife died.  Not long after he cut his wrists beneath the house and when that didn’t work he drank weed killer.  His granddaughter found him by following the trail of blood.

 

Harry spent six weeks in the Royal Brisbane Hospital.  For the past six months he’s lived an uneventful life, no police, ambulances or hospitalisations.  His children visit daily.

 

It’s a heartbreaking story of age and loss, a reminder that no one is immune from death or depression. 

 

Two days ago after the rubbish collection, I said hi to Harry on the street and noticed a wheel had come off his bin.  I laid the bin down and stomped the wheel back on.

 

‘You should get a job with the state government,’ Harry said.

 

‘I had one,’ I said.  For the rest of the day I felt good that I’d helped my neighbour, a frail old man, which is what community is all about.

 

We all have neighbours.  They can enrich our lives.  Long lasting friendships are often forged.  Those friendships can last long after the neighbours have moved house.

 

Other neighbours frighten and infuriate us.  The grievances are often petty misunderstandings which can escalate into major problems.

 

If you’ve got good neighbours, go next door and say thanks.  If you don’t have good neighbours, good luck dealing with them…

 

 

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