When we last left my neighborhood Boo Radley House, it was beautiful, creepy, and mysterious - a faintly stinky shack on the north side of Chicago that begged as many questions as it (probably) had ghosts.
But one recent Saturday afternoon when I was out on a dog walk, I noticed there were people in the back yard yielding big black trash bags. They were clearing out the overgrowth. (Great. Now where would we put the severed limbs?)
I tried hard not to stare, and tried even harder not to walk up and ask who they were, and what the hell were they were doing to my Boo Radley House...
Were they city workers carrying out a decree handed down by a public health agency?
Were they the widow’s thankless kids who finally decided to take care of their long-grieving mother? (And did I get that part of the story right? You know what don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.)
But the mystery didn’t end with trash bags being carried out from the back yard. Oh no.
A couple of nights later on a late night dog walk I was playing it cool in the alley so as to not get caught
stalking taking a picture of the back yard when….THE ELECTRIC GARAGE DOOR OPENED.
Wait. Electric garage door? dahell?
You guys, there was not one but TWO nice cars parked in there.
Gone was a wholly unsubstantiated but completely tragic love story. Gone was my son’s 365 day-a-year Halloween house. The Boo Radley House was now just some shitty house on the block that some nice-car-having young people were living in.
Fix yer house, dudes. Jeez.
That's my piece, and that's my peace. Thanks so much for taking the time to read my silly words. It truly means the world to me. Carry on...