FRANK [PART ONE OF TWO]

[1] FRANK
That damn freak who lived on the other side of the fence with his reindeer sweaters and the coffee mug finally met his maker the other day.
To begin with, that fence is mine, and everything on my side of it is likewise mine. I painted it white on a sweltering Sunday afternoon when I could have been doing any number of pleasurable things. But no, I stuck to my pride. I said to myself, “Chad (that being my name)-- Chad, old boy, you’re gonna have the best damn yard in town, and quite frankly, that fence has got to be white. And you’re gonna paint it white, because you’re a fine man and you’ve got morals.” And it’s true. I do. I have more morals than the Pope. So I went to Harold’s Hardware down the street, picked out a bucket of white paint and painted that thing all Sunday long.
“Watcha doin’, Chad?”
You see, that was Frank with his fancy yellow Sunday drink. He came strolling over to the fence with one hand in his pocket, the other one holding his drink, smiling. He doesn’t drink coffee on Sundays-- just his special “Sunday Drink.”
“I’m painting the fence white,” I muttered.
“Looks great!”
Great my ass! How could he tell? I hadn’t even finished my first stroke. I mean, of course it was great, but how could he tell? Yeah, but what are you going to do? He’s a dentist-- hungry and out to hunt new clients.
“What color are you using?”
“White.”
“I meant the brand,” he laughed and patted me on the back.
“Dutch Boy. Does it really make a difference to you? Can you sleep better now?”
I shook his hand off my shoulder and ducked out of sight to paint the lower part of the fence. I’m allergic to Frank and I’ve never made a big secret out of it. My wife says it’s embarrassing. But as far as I’m concerned it’s my right as an American to hate my neighbor.
“Anyway, it looks great, buddy,” he said. “Are you getting ready for the yard contest?”
I got to my feet and stared long and hard at him. That man was up to something.
“Why?”
I was as a matter of fact. I was getting ready for the Annual Silverstream Yard Contest. Of course I was, like every year. Everyone knew that I was a yard fanatic. I had subscribed to Yard & You for eight years now. I was vice-president of the Hedge Society. And I obviously had the best damn yard in town. Last year I finally made it to second place, and this time my yard was so flawless it was downright scary. I woke up nights in a cold sweat, wondering how it was even humanly possible to have such a perfect hedge; such a deep, juicy emerald sausage running alongside the fence. My hands had created that hedge, and I trembled when I looked at it. I’m a genius. There’s just no other word for it, Frank. A genius.
“I heard you won second place last year,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Going for ‘the big one’ this time?”
What the hell was ‘the big one’? Christ, you can never understand a word he’s saying!
“Yeah, yeah. I’m going for 'the big one’,” I said just to shut him up.
Frank, however, was on a roll.
“That’s great, Chad!”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And with that hedge you just can’t lose.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Of course, you know that this hedge here is technically on my property.”
I stopped painting.
“What?”
“Didn’t you know? It’s on my property. Legally. It’s your hedge, of course; but legally it’s on my property. Don’t worry. They’re just silly rules. They don’t mean much.”
Why are people like Frank born? Well, I’ll tell you why: to make life miserable for the handful of decent men who live in this cesspool. That’s all they’re here for-- for coming over to your goddamn yard and telling you that your hedge is on their property. Let me tell you, there’s only one answer you can give these people:
“You’re talking out of your ass!”
“Now, Chad--”
“--This is my hedge. See that fence? The hedge is on my side of it.”
“Yes, but technically it’s mine because that fence is three yards into my property.”
“I’m afraid that’s just your ego getting in the way.”
He laughed. “You know, I can show you the map of the property some day.”
“Look, I’m trying to work here,” I said. “Can you just go and play Monopoly with your dentist pals or something?”
Frank held up his drink in a farewell gesture. “Well, I’ll be seeing you. Don’t work too hard, Chad. It’s Sunday.”
Fuck him. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. How was I supposed to concentrate on anything now? My whole insides felt like they were bouncing all over the place. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to jump over the hedge and charge at him with my shovel. But instead, I turned away and started to cry. The tears just came trickling out and there was nothing I could do. That was my hedge. If anything was ever mine, it was that hedge. And suddenly here was Frank telling me it was on his property. I knelt down and hugged its green belly and sobbed into it.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” my wife asked at dinner. “You’re not touching your food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She looked concerned. “What? My little grizzly isn’t hungry? What’s wrong?”
“Excuse me,” I said, getting up. “I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Where are you going?”
I’m a calm, clear thinking man, but when I get drunk I tend to become sentimental. Yeah, I do weird things. Sure. So what? Sue me. There are plenty of sober people out there whom I could never compete with. If someone doesn’t like to see me drunk, then they can always look the other way. I’m not going to look neat and tidy for anyone; especially not if my yard is being threatened. The family wants me to see a shrink. They think this yard thing is getting out of hand, but I’ve already got a shrink and he consists mainly of alcohol.
“Chad,” I said to myself, sitting up in the attic with my shrink, “that hedge is your friend. Are you going to sit here and let some asshole named ‘Frank’ say it’s on his property? Are you a wimp or are you a citizen of the United States of America?”
I also tend to become patriotic when I’m drunk, by the way, which is sorta strange because I’m really a wimp. I would be the guy serving food if I ever went to the army. Back in the day, I protested against the Vietnam War, with flowers and beads and all. And I would have had a beard, too, but my chin wasn’t up to it yet. Yup, I’ve always been a pacifist. But when I drink I become a full-blooded American. It’s the same thing every time. I just want to charge into battle in slow motion with a corny soundtrack booming through the air.
“Are you goin’ to sit here and cry over that hedge, Chad? Come on! What’re you going to do about it?”
I jumped up, filled with patriotic fury. Why isn’t it ever the Fourth of July when you want it to be the Fourth of July? It seems to me we’re always buying the firecrackers and getting ready for the Fourth of July, but once you’re really in the mood for it it’s mid-October. I wanted to swear allegiance to the flag and sing the National Anthem, but we didn’t have a flag around and I can’t ever remember more than two lines of any song when I’m drunk. It was sort of pointless. So instead, I staggered downstairs, through the living room where my wife was watching TV.
“Honey, have you been drinking?”
“Yeah. But I’m still sober.”
“Where are you going? It’s past eleven.”
“You just watch your little TV show. There’s something I need to talk to Frank about.”
Of course I embarrassed the whole family name that night again, like on numerous other occasions. But I didn’t care. I felt darn proud of myself, lying in bed remembering what I had said to him.
“Frank! Get the hell down here, you bastard! Get down here and we’ll see who this hedge here belongs to!”
I stood in his yard, calling up to his bedroom window.
“Chad?” His head poked out of the window. “Is that you?”
“You bet your sweet ass it is. Get the hell down here. I need to talk to you!”
“Uh, can this wait until tomorrow?”
“Fuck you is all I’m going to say!”
“All right, Chad. Can we just --”
“--I’m never going to be your client! I’d rather have a cab driver give me oral surgery, so you can stop being a fucking stewardess. I don’t need your charm, Frank!”
And then I began singing “Good Vibrations”, which was sort of irrelevant. If only Frank had heard it, it wouldn’t have been so bad, being that he’s dead and buried. Unfortunately, I can have a very powerful voice when I set my mind to it. I woke up the whole neighborhood that night, and my wife wouldn’t talk to me for four days. And then I had to promise never to drink again.
“I wouldn’t mind so much,” she said, “but you just embarrass the bejesus out of me every time.”
“I know, honey. I’m sorry.”
“It’s true, darling,” she continued, with her baby-talk kicking in. “I just don’t know what to do with myself while you’re out making a fool of yourself.”
“I know. I’m sorry, honey.”
I love her. Next to the hedge there is nothing I like better than my wife. But God, I wasn’t in the mood for this now. I needed a pill or something. All I could think about was Frank and my hedge out there, together.
“You understand, don’t you, my little sugar grizzly?”
“Yeah, honey. I understand. Sure.”
CLICK HERE TO READ PART TWO OF FRANK.