How can you live with this, Dave and Marilyn? How can you be so deaf? It’s possible you could both be deaf, but that shelf of CDs — the Three Tenors, The Brandenburg Concerto — says otherwise.
I’ve been putting up with this for months — fuck that, years. And I’ve never once — not once, not early in the morning, not late at night — heard either of you scream for the dog to shut up. That would be something in your favor. But I don’t even get that. From certain angles — say, from my house to yours — indifference and hostility look pretty much identical.
So, what am I to conclude here? You must know the damn dog is destroying the peace and quiet of the neighborhood, but it means nothing to you. It never once occurred to you that someone in the house across the way might be bothered, might feel violated, trapped, might come to see that his own house is no escape from the rudeness and ignorance of other people.
And here, of all places. In the golden Soquel Hills, every home a seven-figure valuation. You and I, we’re not uneducated burger-flippers living in some shitty apartment complex. I’d expect noise pollution at a place like that. We should know better.
I could’ve retaliated. I could’ve dragged out some speakers as big as your sofa and aimed them at your house, blasted out Whitesnake and Zappa every time your dog got out of control. I’d kind of enjoy that.
But even after years of your assaults, I’ve never succumbed to tit-for-tat, because that’s not who we are. At least, that’s not who I am.
I don’t expect you to look over at my house and worry about me, send over bran muffins and a cheese plate. I don’t want your friendship. I don’t want to be invited to barbecues. I just want the slightest sliver of humanity, that impulse to think about what your beloved little monster might be doing to your neighbors’ peace of mind, the sense to know that someone close to you is suffering even if you’re not. This house tells me that you’re capable of that.
Now, I just want it to stop. For good. It’s gone too far.
I slip out the kitchen door into the garage, and then out the back door of the garage, just as I came in.
When I get home, I take a long shower, do a load of wash, and make it to Zelda’s at the beach just in time for happy hour. For about an hour, I’m happy too.
Friday morning is clear and sunny. I feel inspired, determined to make some progress on my work. The coffee has a brightness to it. It tastes alive, a tad fruity. I’m twenty minutes into writing code before I notice it. No barking.
Through the binoculars, I see no sign of the dog. Did they get rid of it? Did they somehow come to their senses and flash on how rude they were being to the neighbors by keeping that poor thing locked up all day?
The back door to the house is open. A figure in yellow plastic coveralls appears at the door, holding a garbage bag. Man, I can’t be this lucky. They probably just took the dog for a walk while the house cleaners were working.
Might as well enjoy the quiet while it lasts. I turn back to my work. I find myself in the zone much quicker than usual. See, it makes a difference, the quiet. A man needs quiet.
And yet, another interruption. This time, the doorbell. I glance out my second-floor window to see a car in the driveway.
Santa Cruz County Sheriff. What the fuck is this? Nobody saw me go into the Kittles’ house, or leave it. I’m sure of it. This must be about something else.
It’s a man and a woman. Both in uniform. I smile, invite them inside. They decline. So I go outside, and stand in my front yard with the two deputies.
They’re not unpleasant — very cordial, in fact. They tell me they’re investigating a break-in in the neighborhood. They ask my name, who else lives in the house, how long I’ve lived here. I cooperate.
“Do you the know the Kittles, sir?” says the woman deputy.
“No, I...”
“They’re your neighbors just across the way in the back over on Bobcat Lane.”
“Oh, yes. Were they burgled?”
“Not really.” The woman looks warily to the male deputy. “Were you at home yesterday, sir?”
“In the morning. Spent the afternoon at Zelda’s in Capitola. Much of the evening too, actually.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“Unusual, how do you mean?”
The female deputy purses her lips. The man sighs. He looks very young, like a high school kid almost. I can see his jaw clenching. He speaks for the first time: “Look, there was a pretty serious crime committed over there. You might want to consider—”
“Did you see anything unusual?” she repeats, interrupting.
“No, nothing. Don’t I have a right to know what’s happened here?”
“The Kittles’ dog was butchered sometime yesterday,” says the boy deputy.
“Butchered? What do you mean ‘butchered’?”
The female deputy shakes her head and gives him a look. Not a happy one. “Wyatt,” she says. “Don’t—”
“Killed with a steak knife,” says the male deputy, ignoring his partner. “Its blood and entrails spread all over the interior of the house, the walls, upstairs and downstairs. Things drawn on mirrors and surfaces in blood. Food thrown all over the place, broken glass, dishes. Whoever it was must have been over there for a long time, working up a pretty good rage.”
“Deputy, that’s enough,” says the woman. She approaches me with a business card in her hand. “Sir, if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, please call us. This is my personal cell phone number. We’ll be patrolling the neighborhood for a while.”
“Yes, of course, I will.” My mouth is so dry I can barely get out the words.
“You have a good day, sir.” The deputies walk back to their car. I need some water and I need to sit down. I step back into the house, pour a glass of water, and gulp it down. I sit at the kitchen table for I don’t know how long, listening back in my head to what the deputy said. Things drawn on mirrors? What the fuck was he talking about? I need to get out of here. Take a run. Maybe along the beach at New Brighton. Maybe take the bike to Nisene Marks. Burn off this anxiety.
As I move to go down to the garage, I pass by the window. To my shock, the sheriff’s car is still there. The two deputies talking to each other. Suddenly, another car appears. Another sheriff’s car. It parks right behind the first one.
The original officers get out of their car again. The two new boys flank out to opposite sides of my house. One reaches over to put his hand on his gun, like you and I would pat down our pocket to make sure we had our phone. The other one is carrying something bright yellow, like a Post-it note, in a plastic bag.
The doorbell chimes again. I can’t believe it. Somewhere deep in the canyon to the east, I swear I can hear another dog barking.
The Big Creep
by Elizabeth McKenzie
The Circles
I met Ronald Hill at the frozen yogurt place on Mission Street. It was a late afternoon in January, raining, near dark, the road clogged with pissed-off commuters, but he made it on time.
I took off my yellow anorak as soon as I came inside. My hair was frizzy and pulled to the side with a clip and I looked about as respectable as possible for meeting a new client in that weather. He wanted the corner, as far from the college girl at the counter as we could get. We could only find a table that hadn’t been bussed. I wiped off some pink sprinkles with the back of my hand while he got rid of somebody’s mug smudged with coffee all around the lip, like they’d been sucking on it.