Not long ago, a local business man bought one of the homes on my street for his son to live in while he is attending Augusta State University. Enter the parade of golf-obsessed college kids, who's leader is frequently out popping golf balls (not hollow, plastic practice balls) around into the wee hours of the morning. Golf balls are littering the area between our two buildings like so many Easter eggs. In the wee hours of the morning, even, you can be almost certain to find Golf Boy out whacking his balls, practicing his swing.
He and every one of his pack of golf buddies drive large SUV's, and they usually drive them well over the speed limit into positions that take up a lion's share of the spare parking. They're arriving for parties, natch - frequent, and loud, parties that tend to run late. Sometimes Golf Boy takes his minions out on the deck - late. You can see where this is going, can't you?
Now, Didgeridoo Boy and I love a bit of adult beverage-fueled revelry from time to time. We attended (and hosted) our fair share of hugely loud parties when we were younger - - but not in this kind of neighborhood. Yes, yes, we live in one of those quiet, upper middle class townhouse communities nestled in the midst of a sea of, well, McMansions. In a way, this kid and his cronies are amusing - - Didge and I keep odd hours, comparatively speaking, and it's a new thing for us to walk out on the deck at 2am for him to have a smoke and hear a crowd of people shouting and swearing and laughing. "Aren't the little preppies and their Bud Lights silly? Do you think they're still wearing their golf shoes?", we'll wonder.
We were out one night trying to eavesdrop (just being honest), when Didge made the point, "They're really in the wrong place to be doing this. All the people around them have to be hating it." I told him I'd wound up talking to someone about it on the way in from errands a few days earlier, and that a storm was brewing. He said, "All they can really do is call the cops...but out here the cops don't play." Indeed. I've been wondering when the ball would drop and blue lights would appear ever since, or at least when I'd hear the first rumblings of thunder indicating the storm might be on its way.
The less that's said, of course, only encourages more and more interesting behavior. A few days ago, I heard the stereo from that place all the way up to my driveway. Consider this distant thunder - - a definite sign that the storm is definitely brewing. I wondered if Golf Boy had any idea what he was getting himself into - the woman who lives next to him, who is immensely cool but with a bad side you do NOT want to be on, certainly would take exception with that kind of thing. The various potential scenarios associated with that made me giggle. He so obviously just does...not...give...a...shit. And I can tell you what's been happening: The HOA has gone into high alert mode, and they have been talking to his father rather than getting the police involved. In fact, the woman Golf Boy lives next door to? She's one of the people who contacts property owners about issues. Trust me, his dad has been made aware. Perhaps that's why things seemed to settle down for a few days.
Until last night. Didgeridoo Boy came in from work, "Do you hear all that??" I asked what he was talking about, and he told me that the male half of the very cordial, calm, mostly keep-to-themselves neighbors who live next to us (not the Jackasses - they are on the other side) was out in the street "raising hell". "It's those kids. He's out there chewing them out." You have no idea how hard this was to imagine. "What's going on?", I asked. "Duh, they're having another party and he's out there yelling, telling them to cut their shit out or he's calling the police. That's exactly what he said!" I looked out the windows, of course, and saw nothing but the train of SUV's - Golf Boy and Company had evidently run off to hide.
Get those umbrellas and galoshes ready, darlings, and locate your emergency candles. We're in for a devil of a storm, looks like.
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