There’s a neighbor I’m stalking. The man came to my garden in the middle of the night and messed with the cinder block. Pissed all over the damn thing.
“Without a surveillance camera, Fred,” you might ask, “how do you know it’s him?”
All day yesterday, I painted golden glyphs on one of its sides. A meticulous task. My hand isn’t as steady as it used to be since the accident. Now and then, I get the tremors. It’s like I’m on a fast-moving train.
That monster of a neighbor walked past as I was laser-focused on this task. He snorted and made some other guttural sounds.
In that moment, I wanted to pin the bastard to the wall and say, “You fat shit, these glyphs will help my garden grow. It’s not like anyone will hire a sometimes cripple like me. Someone who bursts out in rage, fuming swear words for no goddamn reason. I need this garden to work. So either shut up or help me paint the glyphs.”
By the time I thought of the whole sentence, he was inside his home, most likely jerking off to 80s sitcoms.
That was weeks ago and nothing in my garden grew. I’m devastated. I followed all the directions. Watered it appropriately. Scrubbed the neighbor’s piss off the cinder block. Repainted the glyphs. Still nothing.
This neighbor will give me a portion of his food. Once he gets out of the supermarket with his perfectly greased back hair and ironed grey button-down shirt, I will toss a bag over his head and throw him into the trunk of my beat-up pickup. Once at my place, I will handcuff him to the radiator until he agrees to provide daily clean food rations. Should he object, he will live connected to the radiator permanently.
