Neighbors

Written by Daniel Davis

I suppose I should tell you about the Hobermans.

Not 'cause I really want to, you know, but 'cause I figure it's what you're expecting of me.  And, truthfully, it's the only story I really have to tell.  Lots of folks, they have stories coming out their asses, pardon my French, but I've led a fairly uneventful life.  Which, come to think of it, factors into the story you want me to tell.

Nobody on Woodlawn Lane has had an eventful life.  Not really.  Herb Laymon was in the war—'Nam, not that "pussy-footing Middle East pile of dog shit" as Herb would call it—but he only talks tough; we all know he was no war hero, no more so than all the other boys over there.  And I think Nancy Clemens is on her fourth or fifth marriage, but these days that doesn't mean much.  Clara and I have been married for twenty years, and we were each other's first—first spouse, that is; I don't hold any pretensions about myself, or her, either.

Maybe that's what the Hobermans wanted.  I'd like to think so, but I know I can't really say anything for sure, unlike some folks who think they know everything about things they know nothing about.  I don't mean to rant, you know, but it pisses me off how some folks are quick to judge the Hobermans.  'Course, you could say I'm just as quick to let them off the hook, but at least I admit that I could be wrong.

I guess it might be helpful if I told you a little about them; excuse my inconsistency, I’m not much of a storyteller.  The husband was Rich, a good man.  "Affable" is the word I'd use for him.  He was big, tall and broad-shouldered; "rough," Clara called him, and I reckon it's an accurate description.  His wife was Marie, also a big woman, not quite as tall as her husband but just as broad.  She was nice, too, though you could tell looking at her that she could turn on you quick, like a mother goose with her chicks.

The "chicks" in this case would be Davey and Cory.  They were eleven and eight, respectively, and they were typical kids I reckon.  Wouldn't know myself, 'cause Clara and I can't have kids and I won't say any more about that.  Davey was already starting to get a little pouch around the middle, like his folks, and you could tell Cory would be too somewhere down the way, but they were both outdoorsy and active like children that age are.  They had a dog—Rex, its name was, and I only remember 'cause it was such a dumb name for a Yorkie—and they played with it quite a bit out in the front yard.  Little thing barked all the time, that yip-yip kind of bark that drives a man insane, but I never mentioned anything to the Hobermans about it.  I reckon I might have, if they'd stayed around longer, just 'cause I couldn't imagine putting up with all that racket for too long.

Anyways, that's the Hobermans.  Aside from the dog, I really got nothing ill to say of them.  Rich was always good for a joke; he and I had a couple beers one night, on his back porch.  Marie kept out of the way, really, but she was polite enough, and I just got the sense she was a bit socially awkward.  I think she was starting to get used to me, near the end.  Kind of a shame, that.