The Boys Next Door

The first house I bought was a little brick bungalow on 300 East—a busy street in a working-class neighborhood. The houses were small and taken care of for the most part. The people were, by all rights, pretty nice. But I guess as anywhere, you’re bound to find a house full of riff-raff like the one behind me.

In the spring of 1988, I was in my backyard planting a carload of flowers and scattering redwood chips. Bronski, my trusty little bichon frise, was sniffing around the yard, exploring its perimeter. It was about ten in the morning and looked to be the first nice Saturday of the year. It was t-shirt weather, the birds were out, and the neighbors behind me were involved in a game of  horseshoes—laughing and popping their morning beers. Our two yards were separated only by a low chain link fence so we had learned to ignore each other even though we seemed to get along  well enough. They played their game. I planted my petunias.

Their game progressed and the conversations eventually got harder and harder to ignore as I heard an occasional “queer” and “homo” popping up from among their chatter. I peeked out of the corner of my eye and leaned my ear toward them. One of the guys (who had always been pretty nice to me) came up to the fence and asked if I actually was gay. Sheepishly, I told them I was. That’s when they all started to groan. One guy said “That makes me sick!” Sensing the uncomfortable conversation ahead, I decided it would be best for me to take my leave and just avoid them. As I turned away they yelled “faggot!” One of them said something about my “fag dog.” I grabbed Bronski and went in the house. Tick a lock.

As I sat at my table in a whirl of shock as to what just happened, I saw the men walk to the front of my house and start throwing beer bottles onto my lawn. I’m sure a few neighbors peered from behind their curtains to see what was going on, too. I decided to call the police who were of no help. They said if they intervened, it would just make matters worse later on. My boyfriend Chris pulled into my driveway and they yelled some unspeakable things at him as he walked up my porch. Sensing our lack of resistance, they grew bored after a while and went home.

Late that night, we heard some pops and hissing coming from outside. Apparently, their abuse during the day wasn’t enough. They decided to fire a dozen bottle rockets at my bedroom window. A neighbor yelled at them to stop. They did, but by the next day, their daytime abuse continued.

That’s the way it went. Day after day. Anyone who came to my house would suffer their taunting—even my Grandma. The guys would sit on their front porch yelling that anyone “would get AIDS if they went in that house.” Where they got a vocabulary that included “syphilitic homo bastard” was beyond me. It was embarrassing and infuriating and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.  I tried contacting the homeowner— a slumlord in California who couldn’t have cared less. One compassionate neighbor who new these guys well enough, asked them to stop it but his request fell on deaf ears.

The harassment continued all summer. One night, I was asleep in bed when I heard the sound of breaking glass coming from the back of my house. My heart stopped. Sensing the worst, I jumped out of bed and looked out my window to see the haters’ house go up in a ball of flames. Apparently, someone who detested them a bit more than I did and was tired of their bullshit, decided to serve them a Maltov cocktail to go along with their Old Milwaukee. I muttered a silent “woo-hoo” and put on some clothes to go watch the fire crews. I hoped to get a glimpse of them to wave goodbye, but by that point, there was no sign of them. Thankfully, I never saw or heard from them again.

I put my house up for sale anyway.