“My boy says it wasn’t him,” Bar Hag stated.

“Bull!” I shouted.  “I watched the whole thing!”

“My boy don’t lie to me!”

I rolled my eyes.  “Right, I’m sure he’s the picture of honesty.  If it wasn’t him, then who was it, and why did they go into YOUR HOUSE afterward?”  (note: there were a lot more R-rated words in the actual conversation)

Girl Jeans spoke up.  “It wasn’t me!  It was my friends.” I should also note that Girl Jeans stands an easy 4 or 5 inches taller than me.  His hands were shoved deep into his… girl jeans… and he was hunched like he was trying to hide his head in his shirt.  Apparently, I’m a little unsettling when I’m raving.

Girl Jeans goes on to tell me that he was at a nearby park when three of his friends showed up and announced that they had egged one of his neighbors.  He then returned to his house with them; he was the one on the bike.

“Names,” I demanded.

“Uh…” he rattled off three names.

I pointed at him.  “Do you have any idea what egg does to paint?”  He nodded.  “I hope you realize just how lucky you are that this house is brick, and that it came off Ron’s siding.  I don’t want to see those three around here again.  If anything else happens around here, I’m coming after you.  Keep them on a short leash.”  I turned my back and stalked up my driveway.

As they crossed the street, thy passed Matt.  He gave a head nod, then “Sup.”  Just to let them know I wasn’t the only one watching.

About a week or so later, Girl Jeans was hanging out in front of his house with about five other kids.  They were skateboarding and riding bikes up and down the block, and one ballsy kid was riding up and down my and Matt’s driveways.  I got an idea.

I called Matt.  “Dude, I’m gonna go out there and get those names from Girl Jeans again.  Want to come with?”  The answer was an enthusiastic “Hell yeah.”

Matt and I came out of our respective front doors at the same time.  “Sup guys!” he greeted them.  A confused chorus of “sup” responded.

“Girl Jeans!” I said, using his real name.  The shock was clear on his face; he had no idea what our names were, and no idea how we knew his name.  “What were those names you gave me the other day?”  I was standing right in front of him, and he was seated on the curb.  Matt was a few feet to my right.

“What names?”

“Don’t get stupid.  The names of your friends who egged my house.  Any of these guys involved?” I pointed at the other kids.

“No, no, none of them.  The names, uh, are Chris, Cody, and Cameron,” he said, giving the last names as well.

“Phone numbers and addresses,” I said, writing the names on a notepad.

“I don’t have addresses -“

“Real close friends of yours, huh?”

”- but I got Chris and Cameron’s numbers.”  I wrote those down as well.

“Now let me tell you something, Girl Jeans.  This isn’t some game.  I’m taking this seriously because this is a nice block.  I like it here.  And I’m not going to stand for you or your moron friends messing it up for the rest of us.  Every house on this block knows what happened and who was involved.  This is not the place to be fucking around.  Got it?”

“Yeah, ok, fine,” he said, trying to shrug me off.

“Don’t get a fuckin’ attitude with me!  Do you understand that there is a police report on this?”

“I’m not getting an attitude!  Sorry!”

With that, I started to walk away.  Matt then said, pointing at the kid on the bike, “And stay out of his driveway!  And stay out of my fuckin’ driveway, too!”

Next up: The shocking (not shocking) conclusion!

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The next morning I was out cutting the grass. Near the corner of my yard where the kids had been the night before, I found a smashed egg in the street. “Ah,” I though. “That must have been what I heard.” On I mowed, mystery solved.

Until I crossed the front walk by the front porch. There, in the grass, was a piece of eggshell. There is now way that shell got there from where it was smashed in the street. To anyone watching me, they saw me suddenly stop moving, mower still running, staring at the little shell in the grass. My eyes drifted up, slowly.

“MOTHERFU-” I said out loud. There was an egg smashed on the wall right under the porch light. Yolk had run all down the brickwork and pooled on the concrete porch. Dried yolk drippings hung from the railing. I stood there, dumbfounded, for a minute or two. I shut the mower down and stood back. Another egg was spattered on the other side of my picture window, all over the brick, but not on the glass. I could see shiny spots on the roof where two more eggs had hit.

I dialed the non-emergency number for the police. “Hi, my house got egged last night, and I know who did it. Could you send someone over when they’re free?” Mad props to the KPD; an officer was in my driveway less than ten minutes later. By that time, I had talked with my neighbor to the north, as one of the roof eggs had splattered across onto his siding. The officer handed me a self-report form and described to me what to do. Fill it out, send it in, and if there is any insurance claim or permanent damage, there would be a citation issued. Otherwise, it would just be filed. Well, okay, not the most ideal resolution (SWAT team assault on the house), but I guess it makes sense.

I’ve mentioned in posts before that we have a pretty close block, here. That afternoon, the neighbors to either side of Bar Hag and the teenage girl to the south of me and I were talking. Kim knew Bar Hag’s name, and the girl knew Girl Jeans’ name. Okay, score one for my side. Matt was incensed, as he lives right next door to Bar Hag and has to listen to them all the time. Someone asks why I haven’t cleaned it off. I say, “I want Girl Jeans to do it. If he does, the report goes in the trash. If he doesn’t, I’ll send it in. But I’m not going to talk to him, I want to go through Bar Hag to take care of this.”

Some time later, Joy and I decided to start cleaning - at least my neighbor’s house. As we were finishing, Bar Hag came home. She couldn’t have fit the nickname better: she looked like she was still drunk from the night before, eyes half-closed, cigarette hanging from her mouth. Music was blaring from her Blazer as she parked, hopping the curb.

I started down the driveway. As she turned toward me with her stupid drunken cow eyes, I lost all my cool. My plan had been to speak with her in a controlled, yet obviously displeased manner, but all of the went right out. I opened my mouth, and instead of “hey Bar Hag, we need to talk about your son,” I said, no - shouted, “the next time your kid and his fucking friends eggs my house I’m going to have ‘em fucking arrested!”

“What?”

“Your kids and his buddies egged my house last night!”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them!”

“Whattya want me to do about it?”

I was speechless. Luckily, Joy joined in, “You’re the adult! Take some responsibility!”

Bar Hag shot back, “Call the cops, see if I care.”

I said, “I already did!”

“Good for you!” and she went into her house.

I was so mad. Furious. I went up on the roof, though, to clean the eggs from up there. Matt came home from dinner and saw that Bar Hag was back. I pointed at her truck and yelled across the street, “Whattya want me to do about it?”

Matt said, “Dude are you serious?” He stalked across her yard, up to her front door, and began pounding on it. I don’t know what his plan was, but no one answered.

About ten minutes later, I was working on some more egg, when Joy said, “Here they come.” Bar Hag and Girl Jeans (who had been in the house all day!) were walking over. I saw Matt come out of his house and stand at the end of his driveway where he could observe.

To be continued!

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