Like a good neighbor

There’s something about being an older white guy in America: At some point you feel like the kids need to get off your lawn. Figuratively speaking. 

We got some new neighbors a few weeks ago. This neighborhood is OK, but there’s a somewhat decrepit rental house across the street. It’s so decrepit that it is actually affordable. Thus, the tenants come and go. They come for the affordable rent; they go because the house is, well, decrepit. Black mold and so forth. 

Our newest neighbors are two or three young guys who spend a lot of time working on their mini motorbikes on the sidewalk out front. There’s only one way to work on a motorbike. You tinker with it, and then you start it up and twist the throttle to see if your tinkering has made any difference. Maybe take a test run up and down the street. Repeat until the neighbors call the authorities. 

We’re not calling the authorities. Sometimes, brooding through slatted blinds, I’ve felt that I should. Hey guys: Old bastard over here thinking about a nap. Hard to do that over the random blat of a four-stroke engine.

But where neighbors are concerned, it’s usually wise to weigh personal annoyance against the bigger picture. These guys don’t tinker early in the morning or late at night. They seem to have jobs. When they laugh, it doesn’t appear to be the result of booze or contraband substances. More importantly, they are of an age and skin color where even a minor encounter with cops might easily go south. 

So, yeah: I’ve got a noise complaint, but I think I’ll keep it to myself. Like a good neighbor. Things could be worse. The upside is that I can congratulate myself on my saintly restraint.