The across-the-street neighbors hosted their son's garage band for a couple of years. That was rather painful, but the pain was assuaged somewhat by our new double-pane windows. Also, their tile saw allowed me to do lots of quick, precise cutting for the tile work in our bathroom remodel.
The over-the-fence neighbors are generally innocuous. Their yappy little mutt is no longer keeping us awake on hot summer nights. I amuse myself imagining various gruesome deaths for the little shit. Also, they're a gregarious folk with a strong love of banda sinaloense brass bands and accordion-based conjunto norteņo polkas (Mexican oompah music). It can get a little old.
Our neighbors on either side are renters.
On one side, the folks are friendly enough. They keep a tiny dog that hates me and obviously wants to tear my throat out every time it lays eyes on me.
The folks on the other side are a single mom and her pack of four boys aged four to eight. The boys aren't used to boundaries or they've learned that their mom is a pushover, so they're basically wild animals, but they play well with our son. This means that they almost always end up in our play room. We've learned to lock them out of the house. They tend to wander into our open garage and make off with whatever interests them. We've caught them rummaging through our refrigerator. I've also caught them tearing apart a plastic model kit that they had to climb up on furniture to reach. The fun ended quickly that day.
Meanwhile, the house owners on both sides are doing their best to reinforce the stereotype of the insanely parsimonious Asian landlord.
The fences on either side were original vintage of 1969. They wobbled on their last legs in 2001 when we approached the landlords with the suggestion of replacing them. One neighbor was relatively receptive, but the other wanted to wait until the fence blew down in a storm so she could get her insurance to pay.
Faced with that resistance, we gave up for a while.
This year, the fences finally died despite all our neighbors' effort and improvisation. The tattered wooden corpses teetered against props and driven stakes. One section had been tied to a tree with heavy gauge wire. The kicker for me was the boards weathered by the sun and embellished with a network of fossil worm-tracks left by generations of paper wasps. The fences had started to shed these boards, littering the sides of our house with rusted punji stakes.
We communicated our intentions, got a verbal go-ahead from both owners, and solicited bids for the work. We picked the most promising and professional of the fence contractors who also came in with the lowest bid. Finally, we packaged all the info and delivered it to our neighbors.
The insurance-payout neighbor signed the fencing contract with only a few questions.
The other neighbor balked. His command of English is extremely limited, so we played telephone with his adult sons for about a week. Too expensive. He knows someone who had a similar fence installed for half that price.
Great, we said. We don't want to pay more money than we have to. If they could get a comparable quote for less cash, we'd be happy to work with them.
Weeks go buy. They don't return our calls. My toddler daughter trips and falls on a nail-studded board as I'm watching. Panicky thoughts of peritonitis strobe in my head. She's OK.
At that moment, fighting my way through a red haze, I decided that the fucking fence was going up.
I call. No, they haven't got a quote. They don't know when they're going to get a quote. They didn't want to have to pay more than $800. Even though their share is $1300, I somehow leave the conversation at that.
My wife hears about the latest round of shenanigans and goes nuts. She calls them back. She screams and cries. She threatens litigation.
The next morning, one of the sons drops by to sign the contract.
The fence goes up. It's beautiful.
Fast forward a few weeks. It's 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I hear what sounds like the doorbell, but I convince my sleep-soaked brain that I'm dreaming. I hear the doorbell again and stumble into some shorts on my way to the door.
It's the landlord-neighbor that my wife threatened. He hands me an envelope and practically runs away.
In the envelope is a nice letter and a check for $800 as "a token of [his] appreciation."
Great. Everything that had been so nice and buttoned up now explodes everywhere.
I really hope he doesn't think he's paid off his fence.
There's no "token of appreciation" involved here. Like many states, California law holds both of us equally responsible for the maintenance of the fence. I have better things to do than go to small claims court, but I'm sure my neighbor does too.
Actually, he'd do better by applying the $800 to the amount he owes the fencing company. We haven't been a part of the equation since his son signed the contract, giving his dad's house as his address.
So we've returned his check with a neighborly thanks for the kind words and suggested that he contact the fencing company about what he owes.
Meanwhile, we have nice fences on both sides that aren't going to collapse or stab my children.
I really don't ask for all that much.
Pakeha