My Neighbors hate me.  They won’t admit it, but I know they do.  Oh, they may play nice but I know what they’re thinking and how the curse me under their collective breath. 

Danny and Susan from across the street hate me. As a result, they finally decided to move. They said they needed more room but I know better. They had reason to hate me I suppose. Among other things, when our sprinkler decided to do its Old Faithful impression while we were away on vacation, Danny fixed it.  The fact that we were on vacation was simply a technicality.  Even if we had been home Danny would have had to fix it. I don’t know sprinklers.  Danny does. Danny knows a lot of things.  Danny can drive a backhoe.  Danny often drove a backhoe in his front yard.  I can’t drive a backhoe.  I’d LIKE to drive a backhoe but I don’t.  Danny does.  For that I hate Danny.

Alan from down the street hates me. Alan knows computers. I know how to type.  Alan installed, uninstalled and re-installed our printer software.  Alan also installed our new CDROM drive.  I could have done it. That is not the point. The point is simply that I did not want to risk breaking some other more costly part of my computer in the process.  Besides, Alan enjoys working on computers.  Our time on this topsy-turvy rock we call earth is brief.  Who am I to deny him a little enjoyment during his stay?  Besides, Alan is currently enjoying a two-month paid sabbatical.  For this, I hate Alan.

Pat and Krista hate me. Pat fixed my daughter’s bicycle when the pedal thingy kept coming lose from the thing that turns around. (Did I lose you laypeople out there?)

In all fairness to myself, Pat is pretty useless as well when it comes to mechanical abilities though nowhere near my level of ineptitude. I have about as much mechanical aptitude as a bowl of fruit.  Please don’t ask me to put up shelves.  Shelves and I do not get along.  My wife loves shelves.  I’ll get even someday, but I digress.

Pat also cooks.  We’ve eaten at Pat and Krista’s a lot.  My boy likes their barbecued ribs.  Whenever he smells ribs cooking he brazenly makes an appearance. 

Boy:     “What are you cooking?”

Pat:      “Ribs.”

Boy:     “I like ribs.”

Pat:      “Want to stay for dinner, ‘boy’?”

Boy:     “OK.”

Boy eats own weight in ribs.

We tried to return the favor by having Pat and Krista over for dinner. I figured I owed them a few pounds of food.  I barbecued chicken.  Said barbecue was not working very well.  One fear’s salmonella so one had to make sure said chicken was properly cooked.  If one were a caveman, said chicken could have been used as a weapon.   Pat and Krista were polite and ate what was once quality poultry instead of striking me with it but it did not do much to alleviate their hatred of me. 

It does not take a rocket scientist to surmise that I’m not very popular amongst my neighbors.  Somehow a talent for all things useless does little to ingratiate a man to his brethren. However, in spite of their hatred they are all quite delightful.  This makes me hate them even more.  If they’re not careful I might just up and move to a neighborhood that truly appreciates my incompetence.  I understand the house next door to Danny and Susan is for sale.

BIO: Clayton resident, Joe Romano is a free-lance writer for hire. He can be contacted at jromano01@yahoo.com