No real names used, because, frankly, I don’t know if I ever knew their names in the first place, and I really couldn’t care less what they are anyway.

I had just moved into my very first house. Pride of ownership and what-not. We’re serving pizza to my brother and friends who helped us move. The doorbell—*my* doorbell—rings, and I cheerfully go answer it. It’s a guy I don’t recognize. Must be one of the neighbors, here to welcome us to the neighborhood! I open the door wide and greet him with a smile.

“You ran your truck all over my G. D. lawn and ruined it,” Slouch McSneererson spits out at me. My brother, who happened to be just over my shoulder at the time, had been driving the truck, and he had gone up on the curb a wee bit to back it into the driveway. Bro and I walk out with Slouch to assess the damage. Trying not to make enemies on my first day in the neighborhood, I say, “Of course, I’ll be glad to do whatever is necessary to fix it.” It’s a rut in the boulevard strip. I understand not being happy about it, but sheesh, it’s pretty easy to fix.

“You’re not touchin’ my G. D. lawn, not after I dumped three thousand dollars worth of water on it to get it to grow!” Ol’ Slouch grumbled. Okay, so what did he actually want then? I wasn’t going to offer him $3,000 for a stupid rut. First, I don’t care what he spent on the water bill, he watered his whole lawn, not just that one spot, and second, you pull up the sod, level out the dirt, put the sod back down. $20 to throw a little extra dirt, fertilizer, and seed in there to make it better. Nope, Slouch just wanted to beeyotch at me about it. Establish his place as better than me, I guess.

Now, both my wife and I have jobs. So on trash day, one or the other of us puts our trash cans at the curb like everyone else, then when we get home, we pull them back into the garage. Fast forward a couple weeks. Slouch catches me as I’m starting to haul the trash cans back to the garage. “Your G. D. trash cans were in the middle of the road all day.” I look around, like, they’re lying right here on the boulevard strip where they belong. “I kicked ’em back to the grass, ‘cuz they were in my emmer-effin’ way.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks, Slouch. I appreciate you watching out for us.”

“Didn’t do it for you! Keep ’em outta the street!”

Kinda hard to do when there’s no specific time for the trash to be picked up, there’s no one at home to watch for it, and telecommuting hadn’t been invented yet, but… okay, whatevs.

Several more times, Slouch helpfully informed me when my G. D. trash cans were in the G. D. road, and in his emmer-effin way.

Then one day, I came home and one of my trash cans had been flattened. Like one of those magician’s top hats. No credit taken for it, but I knew who did it. But it was one of those rubber ones, so I stood in the circle and pulled the sides up like a pair of pants, then clambered out of the trash can and took it to the garage. This happened 3–4 times.

Then one week, one of our trash cans disappeared. Interestingly, the McSneerersons suddenly had one more trash can in their possession than they had before, and it looked startlingly like mine. I told myself they must need it more than me, being more trashy people than we were, and let them keep it.

(Oh, one night I did sneak over there on trash day and put my name on it with a Sharpie. Just to needle them.)

They did other things to demonstrate their value to the community. Bottle rockets launched at other houses, breaking into garages to steal lawnmowers, breaking into cars to steal radios (not mine this time, but only because I kept mine in my now-stoutly-locked garage).

When the For Sale sign went up in our yard, they vandalized that! I’d have really thought they’d be happy we were moving out, they seemed so disturbed by our presence, but whatever. I didn’t mention it earlier because it didn’t fit in the rest of the narrative, but these were some really racist, bigoted people as well. They’d host backyard picnics from time to time, and as the darkness fell and the empty beer cans increased in number, and the bottle rockets started flying, you’d hear various disparaging comments about the various ethnic groups they were forced to work with and such. Edit: I just remembered that their house had a flagpole, and it flew the Stars and Bars, day and night. That doesn’t necessarily make them de facto racist, but it doesn’t put much distance between them and a culture that thought it was okay to treat people as object to be bought and sold.

Well, we got a few people looking at our house, and one young couple decided they wanted to buy it. They made a very attractive offer on it, and I was inclined to accept it, but first I spoke with the gentleman. Essentially, telling him that we’re glad to sell to him, but feel he should be aware that the neighborhood is very white, and there are a small number of people in the area who won’t be happy to see a black couple moving in. He smiled and said he was aware that the neighborhood was lily white, and that racism was a fact of life for him and his wife, and he wasn’t worried about anything. Indeed, he was a big man—bigger than me, and I’m pretty big—and pretty solidly muscled. If anyone could stand up to Slouch McSneererson, this guy could.

So moving day finally arrived and we had a crew in to box up and load everything. I gave them instructions, though: the place we’re going, you contract with a trash hauler, and they give you your wheelie bins, so we’re not going to need the trash cans moved. Just leave them in back of the house. We filled them with all the trash we were leaving behind, including the perishable contents of our refrigerator and freezer. The truck pulled away with all our stuff, including our vehicles. But we stayed in the house for one last evening, “camping out” on the floor.

We got up very early the next day to catch our early flight out. Miraculously, in the middle of the night, our missing trash can apparated on our front lawn, as if it had been there all the time! Ol’ Slouch thought he was getting one last dig in, apparently, as now we’d have to haul a dirty old trash can with us to our new home. He didn’t know we were getting a taxi to the airport, nor that we didn’t need the trash cans any more.

While my wife was getting ready to leave, I hauled that trash can and the ones in back of the house, full of all our left-behind stuff, including the now thoroughly stinky contents of our fridge and freezer, and left them on Slouch’s front and side porches, with a paper taped to them saying, “You appeared to need our trash cans more than we do. Enjoy!”

I like to think that he believed them to be empty and gave them a kick, simultaneously hurting his foot and dumping garbage all down his front porch steps.

Not proud of it. But I do giggle like a schoolgirl when I think about it.