Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
Choose a Category: Crime and Safety
Add Subject: “I Am Not a Pervert”
Post Message: Log Date, November 27, 2017
6:00 p.m. — First time I’ve been able to post since I got home from the hospital. I see someone has made Good Neighbor!™ take down all my posts. Please read this now before they take this post down too.
I am not a pervert. If you have been reading my log, you know I was and still am concerned for the well-being of my neighbor, the writer who lives (or lived) opposite me, because said writer has been missing since November 18. I documented all of this, before it was erased. Did anyone take a screenshot? Private message me.
On the night of November 23 at approximately eleven p.m. I donned black pants. Didn’t have black turtleneck but wore green.
I made my way downstairs, took long time because hip, per usual. Nobody on street as far as I could see. Forty-two degrees, cloudy. You remember. Very dark because city refuses to put more lights on our street to deter criminals. Cross street to gate of “Writer’s” house. Open gate very slowly, little jingle jingle jingle, but not much.
I freeze, wait.
Nothing.
Light is on downstairs at “Writer’s” house. I hold onto branch of lemon tree. It sways. I freeze again, nothing. With help of branch I duck down, behind lemon tree, right against front window. Living room is lined with bookshelves, but bookshelves almost all empty! “Jim” is boxing up all the books. Drinking wine. And by back door? Four heavy-duty green trash bags. Next to them, leaning against back door: the axe.
I continue to watch (I realize now that “Jim” was in underwear, no bra, black panties, thong-type, but at the time I didn’t notice because too busy documenting evidence).
Then “Jim” looks up. Seems to stare right at me.
I freeze.
She goes back to packing up books, humming and drinking wine. I am spooked. I grab branch, whole tree sways, don’t even care because, slightly panicked, duck under, come out from tree.
There’s “Jim.” Just standing there in hoodie, waiting for me. I scream. “Jim” maces me.
It hurts so much, like hot sauce in my eyes. I stumble around, can’t see, trip over tree root, crash to ground. My hip on fire. Scream for help. Some of you came out, I’m sure, but I couldn’t see.
Did any of you film this?
Next thing I know, ambulance. I’m screaming, “No, no ambulance!” even though I have insurance, waste of money. I’m screaming, “She murdered him! She murdered him! Just look in the house!”
Some of you must have heard me. I hear “Jim” telling the cops I was peeping in her window.
That’s all I remember, must have passed out.
Hip broken, surgery. Hazy, because drugged. Wake up at one point and there is Officer P., looming over me.
Me: “Did you search the house? Did you see the trash bags?”
Officer P.: “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Nowicki.”
Me: “Lucky? I broke my hip.”
Officer P.: “Lucky because once again your neighbor is not pressing charges. You need to leave this young woman alone.”
Me: “She’s not my neighbor. That’s not her house. You have to listen to me. Read my posts on Good Neighbor!™ It’s all there!”
Officer P.: “Mr. Nowicki, your neighbor is at a writer’s colony in Upstate New York. He’s left his house in care of his sister. We’ve received an e-mail from him.”
Me: “But then, why is she throwing out all his books? What about the trash bags? Did you look inside?”
Officer P.: “Mr. Nowicki, that’s not your business. You’re going to be laid up for a while, but after that, why don’t you go on down to the Market Street Senior Center. They have folk dancing, ukulele lessons, wood carving. Great rehab for your hip. Or you could take up tai chi in the park. Something to do, meet people. Keep you out of trouble.”
Now I’m stuck in a hospital bed in my own living room. Had a day-nurse come in. I asked her to help me get to the window but she refused. “No more peeping, Mr. Nowicki.”
12:00 a.m.: Alone, can’t sleep, stuck in hospital bed. Hip hurts. Spooked. Keep hearing strange noises, but may be the drugs.
Whoever is reading this before it’s taken down, please help.
Take screen shot. Call police. I will say this now: “Jim” murdered her brother. Find the trash bags. Find the axe. We need “Writer’s” disappearance investigated. I can’t do this alone.
Welcome to Good Neighbor!™
Choose a Neighborhood: Midtown
Choose a Category: Crime and Safety
Add Subject: A Sad Day
Post Message: Log Date, November 28, 2017
Hi, everyone, I just joined Good Neighbor!™ My name is Dave Nguyen. I’m writing from the East Coast, where I heard the sad news that my next door neighbor Mr. Nowicki has passed. We’re all sorry to lose a respected neighbor and member of the community. I wasn’t able to go to the services, but my sister went and told me two of his former students attended.
First off, I think we all need to thank the SCFD for keeping the fire from spreading to other houses. I don’t know what they are planning to do with the remains of Mr. Nowicki’s house, but I know you’ll all agree with me that it’s an unsightly mess (my sister says) and a sad reminder. I hope his relatives or the city takes care of this soon.
I have a teaching opportunity here, so will be relocating, but my sister will take care of everything at my house. She’s helping me get rid of some extra things, books, some knickknacks, CDs, a few paintings — so if you want anything, they will be in boxes outside the house before she goes to Goodwill on Monday. Feel free to stop by and pick up some of the loot. She’ll be watching for you.
Flaming Arrows
by Wallace Baine
Soquel Hills
My wife died.
That’s what I’d tell you if I sensed you wondering why I lived alone in this big house in the California hills, overlooking the Monterey Bay.
It’s true. Just not the whole truth. Two years ago, she left me — after seventeen years. She called from a La Quinta in Irvine. At some horribly early hour. Told me she wasn’t coming back.
“What about your things?” I said, a golf ball in my throat.
She sighed. “I have my things.”
She’d been gone for three days, and it wasn’t until after that phone call that I noticed she’d cleared out her clothes, her books — everything that belonged to her.
Then, a couple of months later, she died, right after our last meal together. Car accident.
We had met at Dharma’s, a hippie cafeteria she liked. I bought her a hot chai.
She wanted to talk about divorce. I was pleased to learn that she hadn’t yet contacted a lawyer. We were both civil. I felt so, anyway. Then she had to leave. Get over to Palo Alto for something. I didn’t know where she was staying. Didn’t ask.
Less than an hour later, she lost control of her Acura near the Summit on Highway 17. We had bought that car new. Couldn’t have had more than three or four thousand miles on it.