The sign

To paraphrase Thoreau, "Most residents of Bayonne lead lives of barely contained anger and go to the grave with the fury still in them."

I walked by the house where I saw the sign last night. I was hoping it was still planted in the patch of grass beside the curb. Unfortunately, it wasn't. I had seen it shortly after Christmas on my walk to the Light Rail. It was a white piece of plastic attached to one of those wooden spikes people use for gardening. Scrawled across it in black magic marker were the words, "Please pick up your dog shit" and below the words was an arrow pointing down to a considerable pile of shit in the grass. I have to admit, the sign made me laugh. I recognized in it immediately the mad rage that went into its construction, a rage that had surfaced on a few occasions when I had been confronted by the incivility and utter stupidity of my neighbors.

It's probably unavoidable when so many people are living in such close proximity to one another and feeling the pressures of living from paycheck to paycheck (Bayonne still feels more working class to me compared to the tonier parts of Jersey City and Hoboken). There have been several incidents where I've completely lost it with my neighbors and, similarly, my neighbors have lost it with me.

The worst was probably the time someone had clearly backed out of a driveway and hit the driver's side of my car that was parked on the street, denting it enough so that I couldn't open the door. I was pissed! So pissed that I immediately began haranguing a couple of old ladies sweeping up leaves in front of a house next to the driveway. When they failed to acknowledge who might have been responsible, I began to pound on the door to their house (in my rage, I was convinced they were covering for the true culprit who cowered within). I demanded justice and wasn't going to leave until I was satisfied. Eventually, I had to leave, but I wasn't going to do so without a dramatic flourish. "You better do the right thing here. If you're decent, you'll find out who hit my car and come foward. I'll be back, so you better do the right thing." Of course, all I got in return when I inquired a couple days later were looks of incredulity. I might as well have been some schmuck from the Jehovah's Witnesses.

Other times I've exploded against neighbors include the time I went off on a couple jerks who sicked their Rottweiler on me while I was walking down the sidewalk (the idiots didn't think I could hear them in the alley when they said "Get him"--they called the dog off at the last second before it could sink its teeth into me). I even called the police after that incident. The police told me no one answered when they knocked at the address I provided and that was that (I never knew it was so easy to elude the police--it's a wonder anyone answers the door when the police come knocking). Then there was the time I gave a neighbor an earful on the phone when she was responsible for me getting a couple parking tickets (I had had the audacity to park in the spot in front of her house that she felt was reserved exclusively for her). Recently, I came close to blowing up when a guy behind me decided he wanted to use every loud power tool he owned early one Saturday morning. In succession, he mowed his lawn (really just a small patch of grass), blew a few leaves around (when I peeked out of my window he was actually using the leafblower on his building! To what purpose, I have no idea. Maybe he didn't like cobwebs.), and then, just for good measure, he got his power saw out and began cutting up what looked like broken lawn chairs (he clearly wasn't making anything, just cutting things into smaller pieces). But because he was wearing those goofy long shorts thuggish types are fond of I backed off and let him continue making his racket. And just a couple weeks ago I began mentally composing nasty notes I wanted to leave on cars intentionally taking up more than one parking spot on the steet (regardless of the fact that they were depriving me of a good spot--their selfish action was enough to set me off). I didn't do it this time, but I'm not so sure I'll be able to suppress the urge the next time.

Parking often acts as a spark in these incidents. I've been yelled at (and yelled back) a few times by homeowners who felt I was infringing on the sacred borders of their driveways (I recently saw a news article about "Parking rage" in San Francisco--Bayonne's been experiencing "Parking rage" for years). One guy yelled at me late at night from the window of his house. Apparently, he had nothing better to do than sit in the dark watching his driveway. Another time an elderly man who lived in the building adjacent to mine called the police to complain that I was playing my television too loud. That was a headscratcher. I think that guy went a little crazy shortly after that, so I never held it against him.