Not So Common Anymore

The topic of tonight's post, friends, is common courtesy. Wow, that sounded really passive aggressive. I'm not accusing you guys of being uncourteous*, I swear! No, the target of my ire is my next door neighbor.

I shall call him George.

No, George is too awesome of a name for him.

I shall call him...Wonston. That's right. Wonston. It was going to be Winston, but the "i" and the "o" are really close together on the keyboard and it's too late to turn back now, so Wonston it is.

Wonston has been living next door to me for a couple of years. I've never spoken to him (our neighborhood is not what you might call "friendly"), so I have no idea how many people actually live in his house...but they have seven cars. Seven freaking cars, people. Two are parked in their driveway. Three are in front of their house. And two are in front of my house. Most of the cars rotate in and out - sometimes the Jeep is in the driveway, sometimes it's the Corolla with the "Jesus Loves You" license plate frame - but the ones in front of my house never move. They're just there...in front of my house...forever.

You know what, Wonston? I would like to park in front of my house.

I live on a corner, Wonston. You know that, because you live next to me. Around said corner, there is room for at least six of your multitude of cars. Why do you insist on trying to fit both of your humongotron pickups in the space between my driveway and the handicap ramp for the crosswalk? This isn't the twilight zone. Neither of them magically shrink when the other is present. You either block off the ramp, leaving wheelchair-bound folks SOL, or you extend a good half-foot into my barely-big-enough-for-one-car driveway, forcing me to go off-roading every time I stop home for lunch. 

Wonston is my mortal enemy. And he knows it, too. (Why yes, I am being melodramatic. Why do you ask?) Last week, the parking duel came to a head: I was walking up my driveway as he was leaving his house. I opened the gate, turned, and spotted him. We made eye contact. I glanced meaningfully at my car, then at his, and looked at him. He gave me a nod, seeming to understand. He walked to his car. I loitered at the mailbox. He turned the ignition. It roared to life. He looked at me. Smiled. He got something from the glove box, turned the car off, and walked back inside. CURSES, I thought. Curses indeed.

Also, before you say that I should be a little less film noir with my narrative and actually talk to the guy, there is some shady stuff going on at that house. Unless he just has a bunch of friends who enjoy stopping by at all hours for a quick chat through the windows of their cars. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.

Pretty exciting, right? See what all of you are missing?

First day of bike commuting to work tomorrow. I bought a bell. Here's hoping I don't die.

*It should be a word.