The best place to start is from the middle. It was just two weeks after we moved into our new dream home when we had our first acrimonious discussion with settled neighbour. Brandon was two years old and had driven his battery operated car onto her driveway. She came running out, screaming and hollering, pitching a pointy finger within inches of his face.
I couldn't fathom what I was seeing or hearing at first, it's not possible for an adult voice to erupt in such manner of overreaction and hysterics towards a small child. I'm still flabbergasted as I steer my little boy off her property, tears of fear streaming down his face, and I'v automatically shifted into protective mother mode, bursting into a rant of obscenities.
"You fucking immigrant. You fucking communist, property-lined, territorial fuck wipe."
When I drink I get even. My language becomes vulgar, a certain finesse taking years to master, a rhythm flowing almost poetically, one word strung perfectly with the next, until there is no more breath, and my windpipes fill up once again with a new chorus of slang and rot. She has slighted this juncture in my life with stubborn malthought, her driveway meriting more regard over a little boy, and my memory of moving to my new house is now perverted by her face.
We are still unpacking our belongings while familiarizing ourselves with the new area; the salmon spawning creek aligning our properties, the homing pigeons flying circles above them, and learning neighbor's names, and their kids, which one steals, which one hits.
Our buddies, Steve and Dale helped us with the move, minimally enough to drink free beer and to relax on the front steps to ogle the new desperate housewives. Daniel and I drank, too, in honor of our awe-inspiring purchase, mentally pinching ourselves into the actuality of being here, finally, deep pride having four bathrooms instead of one, where there'd be no more disputes over who gets to poop first.
We starred at our new house, ran up and down the three level of stairs, investigated the creek nearby and laid down in surrounding field, gazing towards the bluest sky on this happiest of days, infecting all around us with absolute bliss, except for Ana. She didn't like the idea of us laying down in the tall grass behind her property, presuming we're passed out drunk, and watched intently for our next stupors from her bedroom window.
It became apparent none of the other neighbors drank, not even casually, nor did they sit on their front stoops, and it also became apparent who they allied with. No one came to welcome us or introduce themselves, keeping an assiduous distance between us, enough to peruse our stuff being loaded off the truck.
It flustered them having ordinary, middle-class folks move into their exclusive neighborhood without claiming to own businesses, or flying airplanes. They thought very highly of themselves, but hid behind false images of company leased vehicles, and tenant income, suites nestled far back in the garden, like a rotten apple.
Ana slurps in Jesus and Christianity and tries to force feed the rest of us with her enlightenment leftovers. Being the Christian she was, denoted a correctness in her actions, whatever acts they were, blessed they are by the Lord, and she will be saved from the likes of me. She doesn't fool us, though, hiding behind the robes of faith, allowing herself exceptions and interpreting her injustices as loving reverence. She's a methodical worshipper, a robotic demeanor with the good Book in hand, and memorized psalms ready for the plucking, as her mouth wags up and down,biblical proverbs fart out in cold stench of disbelief and betrayal.
Daniel and I are not ostentatious and don't need to impress anyone with our circumstance; some of our experiences are not pleasant, some are so fantastic that, to the layman's eye, may appear as a fantasy of our imagination. It truly is the good with the bad that keeps us committed to each other, despite growing bellies and expending youth, we keep each other in check, or in opposition, as necessary. We love our children beyond infinity and it will be a cold day in Hell before I ever allow this woman to onrush them again, even so, Daniel urges I cut her some
slack and let tensions ease.
I have achieved pure hate, an absolute repugnance towards this woman, and I yearned to hire a hit man to blow her fucking head off. I daydreamed about it, laid in my bed at night formulating the kill; the meeting of a junkie on the streets of Vancouver, the shotgun blast exploding her skull wide open, brain matter rocketing feet away from her body, a final gurgling breath, then silence. Sin swelled in my soul every time I saw her, heard her voice, a Hitler-hatred of Jews being marched to the the gas chambers disdain. He was requited, somewhat, as the ash floated in the air, transiently coloring the skies to obscurity, restitution for whatever drove him to his demented design, nonetheless, ensuing his personal gratification.
I erupted my hatred for this cunt every time I saw her in her yard, or in the street, I would shout "fucking immigrant, go home", then continue glutting profanity about Romania being a chicken-shit, communist country full of chicken-shit people, which was the worst calumny imaginable and usually she'd storm off unable to take anymore defamation, gratifying my own indulgence.
Their inferred superiority to us, to all non-Romanian nationals, which was more irritating when a bunch of them showed up, laying cardboard underneath their cars in case of oil leaks. They bragged how their yard is so much bigger than ours, how their daughters can speak English so eloquently, how they are better Canadians than Canadians. They required affirmation to owning the most astonishing house, full of beauteous things, with the most fragrant flowers ever to perfume and behold, dotted within a superlatively manicured lawn.
They actually kept cars in their garage, unlike ours, which was full of kid toys and bikes and camp gear. Ana complained about our vehicles being parked in our driveway and insisted we park in the garage, that is what they are for. She liked the emptiness of the street, with no kids, no vehicles, no noise and found something to complain about when her sense of order was broken.
Every item, small or large, had a proper place and she followed the instruction manuals exactly as written, as if she had grown up watching "Leave it to Beaver" stolen off Sputnik satellite feed. She spoke in manner which was demanding and onerous, and when she attempted to swear at me, she would say "fuck-on-you", which only spurned more loathing towards her iron curtain dialect.
The feud grew as she began blocking my kid's school bus from turning in the cul-de-sac, as she watched for the bus from her garage, then gunning it to the street as it approached my house. She threw cat poop in our swimming pool and one day, upon my return from work, there was a neat pile of cat shit in the middle of my yard. Ana had previously complained about my cat and the poop in her dirt, but we reassured her there were many cats in the area, and besides, we live near a creek full of coyotes and raccoons and strays. Daniel appeased her once by telling her he'd have a talk with our cat and she walked away content with that solution.
We also learned to charm her by remaining in her vaunt conversations, praising all their accomplishments to date, with nary a word in edgewise, again mollifying her for a few more days.
The shit continued to monument itself in my yard, along with dead rats in various stages of decay. A dead rat appeared in front of our curb one day, which we promptly hosed down to slide in front of her house. Ana hosed it back up to us. And so on. After awhile there wasn't much left of the rat, as it was shredded and mangled to unrecognizable bits and pieces on each watery journey.
The poop itself came in all shapes and sizes; big round lumps, long cylinders like popsicle sticks, harden gray pellets, soft and pliable, animal or non-animal, which I seriously deliberated.
She began speeding into the street, from the beginning of the cul-de-sac, straight through to her driveway, laying into her horn the entire time. She understood the standard speed limit on the streets of Surrey was 50km, and in like, drove this fast on our tiny road, confident she wouldn't be fined for speeding. Honking the horn was fair warning to all the children riding their bikes or playing hop-scotch, and she would not brake, easily plowing into them without perceiving an wrongdoing or remorse, after all, the streets are for cars, not for noisy kids. She prodded the children to the backyards, which were still full of rocks and debris from the home builders, certainly not appropriate for bike rides or play.
Still, when we finished landscaping and installing a swimming pool in the back, the kids would splash and laugh out "Marco Polo", Ana would traipse down to the pool deck and tyrannize the children to silence. They were not to be seen or heard, anywhere, anytime, in spite of being within the confines of their own backyard. She held no regard for other's property and went where she pleased, though if you put one foot on hers, she became defensive by such animosity and threatened to call the cops.
On this particular day, the warmth of the sun rejuvenating me, I felt like hero, like Superman, and I unflappably stepped into my family room, pulled out a music CD, and turned the volume up full blast. For the balance of the afternoon, me, the kids in the pool, Ana and her tea party guests dressed in their finery on the deck nearby, were entertained with KISS Destroyer.
Her strict behavior and manner is evident from a communist upbringing, a guarded life, thanksto decades-long rule of dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, who took power in 1965, and his police state, becoming increasingly oppressive and draconian through the 1980s. Though Ceausescu was overthrown and executed in late 1989, former Communists dominated the government until 1996, when they were swept from power by an unruly coalition of centrist parties. Rampant corruption and lagging economic and democratic reforms chased her and husband to Canada, and though she came for freedom and opportunities to become a vital individual, Ana is unaware she has instinctively become what she has left behind.
She claimed the portion of the street in front of her house as their own personal property and would come knocking at our door if one of our visitors parked there. She argued and demanded they move, so we did to avoid further embarrassment, and Daniel and I found ourselves capitulating on many occasions for this very reason. Ana controlled us. She controlled the street like a military tank, ready to aim and take fire on anyone who tried to negotiate a fair democratic resolution.
On a sleepy Sunday afternoon, while Daniel and I mused in our garden and the neighborhood deliberately ignored us, the little boy next door was almost hit by her car, and witnessed by his parents. Ana had gone too far and was now being chastised by her one and only friend on the street, the mother of the little boy.
I enjoyed this immensely, the pay back, the moment when someone else recognized what was under the facade of fake laughter and fake gestures of community. I embellished the cries Ana made as she was berated by them, soaked up every last whimper and made certain everyone in the street saw my face of redemption.
It wasn't soon after the mutiny of Ana when the neighborhood initiated discussions with Daniel and myself, idle chit-chat about grass seed, driveway sealers, ordinary crap of little significance, yet in their own way, apologizing.
