The Neighbors: Chapter 3

Back in March I promised the next chapter of THE NEIGHBORS to be about the S.W.A.T. incident. It's your lucky day - I have come to deliver.

Let me take you back, circa 2000, to when I-Am-A-Walking-Drug-Free-Foundation-Commercial Chris was still living with The Dirts. He and his baby-mama plus her other couple kids from other daddys. AND they all lived in his bedroom. Thinking about it now, I just . . . I don't . . . Okay look, if ever I find myself in a similar situation, then PLEASE, just take me to some secluded wood - or alley - and put me out of my misery. I remember hearing an argument one night between Chris and the girlfriend, and she was crying and yelling at him for always calling her "Angela," which apparently was the name of his ex-girlfriend, and he just mumbled unitenligble phrases in response . . . Wow. I really miss them.

Anyway. Chris is a treasure. His pants generally hang somewhere in the mid-thigh region and he walks like he lost a piece of his leg to a landmine in Vietnam. He was on house arrest for something drug related, and despite being born and raised here, he has learned to speak English, or rather something English-like, from rap songs.

Also, he has been MIA since the S.W.A.T. Team came calling.

And call they did. Thanks to Richard. Here are the important highlights of Rockin' Richard: long greasy hair, emaciated, snaggle-tooth, thinks he went to Woodstock, suspected pedophile, really loud electric guitar playing all night long, and most importantly: METH LAB IN HIS HOUSE. No one ever walked past his house, which was partially covered by weeds, and he rarely came out of it. The few occasions where I had the horror of seeing him was when he was conducting business meeting with Chris on The Dirt's front lawn, complete with lawn chairs, beers and the typical cloud of smoke.

One evening after dinner my family was weeding the front planter (yes, you read that right. MOM.) when two large black vans came screeching up the street to Richard's house. Men in black uniforms with S.W.A.T. written in white came leaping out of the vans and through Richard's faux-jungle and plowed into his house. My family sat on our curb and applauded as they cleared some things out (read: his drug lair), but his dang weeds blocked a lot from view. I'm not sure if they cuffed him and took him - does S.W.A.T. cuff people? - but I do know that he never came back.

And as for Chris, he and his fourteen kids are gone too. And now Joe has inherited the bedroom that can apparently house a family. My true heart's desire is to be here when Dog the Bounty Hunter and Co., whom I love, comes storming into THE NEIGHBORS house and takes them all out. One can dream.