I think someone is finally moving in to the long-vacant house next door. A geezer arrived there this afternoon, carting boxes into the house from his pickup truck, while some obnoxious AM news station blared from the truck's radio. I'm guessing he's as deaf as a rock. The racket woke me up some two hours early. I am not pleased. I can tell that the guy was a punk kid in the 1950s, and probably scandalized his parents by listening to that rock'n'roll music, and affecting the attitude of James Dean or Marlon Brando, and he undoubtedly annoyed the neighbors by gunning the engine of his re-built 1938 Ford with the twin tail pipes at one o'clock in the morning. Him and his rowdy friends, and their Levis with the cuffs rolled up, and the packs of Camels stuck in their t-shirt sleeves, and their girlfriends in pedal-pushers and midi-blouses. If I ever decide to talk to him, maybe I'll ask him what it was like in Juvie. Of course, I'll have to watch out for his switchblade.
A few years ago, there was a time when at least four houses around mine were vacant for months. I liked that. I would like to see most of the houses in the neighborhood vacant, slowly falling into disrepair, the deer browsing the overgrown yards. I've always liked the melancholy atmosphere of abandoned buildings in declining neighborhoods. This place would be much more interesting as a ghost town than it is as a dull bit of displaced suburbia. And I wouldn't have to hear anybody's crappy AM radio.