the decline of the american empire.

decorum dictates that i update you about the house next door since it’s been almost two years since i’ve written about it.

both parents moved out (he took their younger son to his partner’s pad; she moved in with her new boyfriend), leaving the house to the older son and society’s rejects. more cars appeared at night, more kids stood on the front lawn during the day, and i continued to avoid them while simultaneously hoping they would talk to me.

soon after, the house was raided, the officials leaving a list of things that had to be completed to bring the place up to code. for a few days, the kids loaded a pick-up truck with garbage bags, before retreating to the roof of the shed to smoke. one night, as i stood outside, hiding myself behind the garbage can, i watched a car slow down and then stop as it was passing the house. the older son and a friend approached through the shadows towards the front door. another car stopped before continuing its route when the older son chased after it with a baseball bat.

apparently their efforts at renovating weren’t sufficient, as a large lock appeared on the door one day. they returned once to carry off the trampoline, presumably the only item necessary for starting their new civilization. the police who visited the property advised us to call if we witnessed anything suspicious. they brought us inside to view a museum of trash and damaged furniture. the carpets were stained. clothing burst from the closet like a glutton who had eaten too much. the smell was overpowering, like a roomful of corpses that had vomited themselves to death after eating a roomful of corpses.

boards were placed over the front bedroom window and a blue tarp over most of the roof to prevent further leaking. i took a bird bath and feeder from their back yard, gifts for my dad; he took one of those gazing balls for his garden. i offered the grill to my friends but it was too rusty to be of any use. when i went to check on its condition, i found a bong sitting on its side shelf.

everything i’ve described above has taken place over the last three months. a few days ago, i discovered that the back door to the garage is unlocked, so maybe there’s a part three to this story.

society’s rejects.

when driving toward my parents’ house, i take a long look at the neighbor’s. until fairly recently, one of the boys would be standing in the yard, waving at cars. now, as my dad relays, the older one, eighteen, is arguing with a man who wants him to stop yelling at small children who pass. he tells the man to fuck off.

the older one found a dead body in the woods once, a guy who had taken his motorbike off-road, hitting a tree and splitting his head open. the older one poked him with a stick. he’d also been shipped to military school because he wouldn’t recognize authority. on another occasion, my ex- reached deep into the trunk and, when she backed up, he was pressed up against her. he said, hi. later that day he would hurriedly tell me, hey man, your girl has big breasts, bye.

we used to play hockey, he and his brother against me, in my garage. he now lives in his own garage. late at night, the light on, and in the driveway, one of the following cars (or, more often, a combination) is parked: a bright orange one with black racing stripes, one whose front half has been involved in a wreck and the owner hasn’t had painted back to the original white, the earliest mini van in existence. during the day there are kids roaming the lawn with baggy pants and gauged ears or running out of the house when their parents arrive to pick them up.

my dad sees this whole situation as if he were a small country with a weak military adjacent to a country test firing nuclear weapons and making threats of war. every time i come home he makes me go back outside to prove that my car doors are locked. he comes running upstairs to give me updates when a police car stops next door or there’s more than two kids in the yard. my dad tells me that while i was away, an ambulance came to the house and a bystander asked the older one what was going on. they feared that a friend had overdosed on caffeine. maybe we should put up surveillance cameras, maybe we should build a security fence (or a moat), maybe we should train a fleet of attack dogs.

through his teeth my dad often says, just the ugliest bunch of kids you’ve ever seen — society’s rejects. i know rogue nation is on the tip of his tongue. my sister and i share a laugh in private, as they remind us, to the letter, of her friends at that age.