Sooner or later, we all have one: the proverbial neighbor from hell.
The rest of my neighbors are pleasant, even if some are a
bit peculiar. One lady seems to be bipolar and has substance abuse and anger control
issues, but I have never called the cops on her (someone obviously does,
though, because they’re always coming to cart her off). Another of my neighbors
used to be Aaron Broussard, the Jefferson Parish president who had fifteen
minutes of fame during Katrina. He was always nice, but I say “was” because
he’s now in a federal pen. One next-door neighbor is a very affable,
extremely buff black FBI agent with an impressive collection of automatic
weapons, whose presence is rather comforting during hurricanes. But then
there’s the jerk on the other side…
Once, after Katrina, he called the cops on me when I stopped his workmen
from moving his fence posts another foot inside my property line (they were
already six inches on my property, but he managed to pull that off before I
bought the house). Another time he sprayed Round Up on the gardens of the houses that border his back yard. And just this past
weekend, when I wasn’t home, he sent men with chainsaws to lop the tops off
four of my small trees and seriously butcher my Bradford pear tree (he doesn’t like things that grow because the wind carries leaves and petals into his pool). Yes, I could call the cops on him
because we’re not talking branches hanging over the property line but limbs
that were on my own property and the tops of the trunks of trees growing in my
front yard. But the trees are already ruined, and while I used to be a rather
scrappy person, I’ve mellowed enough these days to realize that fighting with
people only introduces disharmony and aggravation into my own life.
Besides, I have a way to get back at him that is open to
few: I intend to put him in one of my books—maybe even more than one—and it
will not be a flattering portrayal.
I have in the past put an ex-husband in one of my books, and
killed him. One of my daughter’s old boyfriends has been an endless source of
inspiration for a number of characters with borderline traits. An annoying
woman from our local RWA chapter is making an appearance in the book I’m
writing now. There’s a reason Steve gave me this sweatshirt for Christmas one
year:
Of course, I also put people I like in my books, or at least bits of them. Both Hendon
in the Sebastian series and the Colonel in the Tobie and Jax books have aspects of
Steve in them. My two daughters inspired the little girls in one of my historical romances
(and yes, they recognized themselves when they grew old enough to read it).
It’s something all authors do, consciously or subconsciously. Sue Grafton once
told me that she turned her daydreams of killing her ex-husband into A
is for Alibi .
In you-know-who's case, I’ll change enough that he won’t be able
to sue me on the off chance he should read my book(s). But I will have endless
fun with him. And quietly laughing at him is much more pleasant—and productive—than
getting angry, and much safer than trying to get revenge. However, the next time he lets his pool get nasty, I am definitely
calling code enforcement.
UPDATE: I must confess that my attempt at maintaining a Zen-like calm did not work. By Friday, when I realized I was still too upset by the incident to write, I did call the police. They warned him that I could charge him with "simple criminal destruction," although I have decided not to press charges at this time. He's still going in my next book, though!
