A border town is a town or city close to the boundary between two countries, states, or regions. Usually the term implies that the nearness to the border is one of the things the place is most famous for.
According to our police department, The Coffin and the dirt it sits on---I call it The Plot---is known as The Border in local law enforcement circles. You can look it up, but this border does not appear on any map anywhere.
This street is a horseshoe and The Plot sits dead center (no pun intended). I had no idea that John Law knew anything about my place and the new knowledge does not give me the Warm Fuzzies. When law enforcement is so familiar with your place they give it a nickname there is a problem somewhere.
It did put me on the hunt for ammo, and I will say that .22 shorts are almost impossible to procure. I had kept in touch with one scumbag after me and T. split up and if he can't find something it does not exist.
I would have stayed blissfully ignorant if it were not for a tent that suddenly sprouted up one afternoon. A big orange tent, ragged-out truck, ice chest, and assorted junk thrown everywhere. Just about six inches on MY side of the property line. About ten feet from my front door and too damned close for my comfort.
I had been working in the yard on the other side of my trailer and because I was intent on my work and plugged into an mp3 player I didn't know about the newest neighbor until it was too late.
I started lookin' for whoever owned the mess and lo and behold, he appeared. He was tiltin' a cold one back and staggering as he did so. Clearly not his first beer of the day. He was barefooted and his dirty jeans were just about to fall to his ankles. I could see a lot of butt crack and clearly he had no underwear. He wasn't wearing a shirt and he was covered with tattoos. He had Crazy White Boy written all over him whether his belly tattoo said it or not. Goodness only knows when he had last bathed, but I'd bet a days' pay it had been at least a week since his last bath, if then.
I really try not to judge others and to be real, if you run across me on a Saturday afternoon I will look like hammered shit. As Saturday is Chittlin' Day at the diner I'm gonna smell like....hammered shit. You can smell me comin' before you see me as the odor reaches about eight feet in all directions. Yeah, I use a lot of soap and shampoo.
The Tent Guy was a nasty turn of events and I had no intention of confronting a drunk. I had already been labeled The Neighborhood Racist and Old White Bitch so if I complain about this I will never have a peaceful moment, and I know it. If I had a man living here I wouldn't have much trouble, but.......
My neighbors could tell you exactly how many men had been to my house, because they had paid close attention and the count was accurate. One Ex-husband, one son, two son-in-laws, and a brief boyfriend that wouldn't even pull into my driveway because the neighbors freaked him completely out. If you freak a 1% biker out you've done something.
I got the racist moniker for using the term "y'all" when I wished the folks across the street a good weekend. I went to the mailbox about the same time the man across the street was taking his trash to the curb. We spoke to each other and I said "Y'all have a good weekend!" when we parted. That's all it took.
This inflamed the whole block to the point that the neighbor who lived next door where Tent Guy was now living came over and told me he was gonna educate me about "how to talk to Black Folks". I didn't understand most of what he said because he was so drunk his speech was slurred and he had to hold on to my step railing to keep from falling over.
I became The Old White Bitch when I wouldn't hand over money, cigarettes, and cold drinks, and refused to drive my neighbors all over the state. I flat-out LIED when they asked to borrow my jumper cables. Nope, I ain't go no jumper cables.
If you really think I'm an Old Racist White Bitch, why would you even try to "borrow" anything from me? The word "borrow" is a joke because they will promise to pay you back when they get their check at the first of the month but there is no "first of the month" on their calendar.
Not knowing how to deal with this I told Middlest Child about it, hoping for a helpful suggestion. She did not have one but drove by my house, checked the situation, and drove straight to the police station.
Yep, they knew the place.
"Oh! I know which trailer your mama lives in! We don't have much trouble with one end of the street, but we call the rest of the street Cracktown, and we call your mamas' place The Border because right past her trailer is where we have the most trouble." I had driven down that end of the street several times and I didn't know it was all meth and crackheads. Looking at the yards I just thought a bomb had gone off or there had been a tornado, if the debris was any indication.
He had a couple of suggestions involving restraining orders and that was just gonna make it worse. And no, Tent Guy can stay in his tent because of a loophole in the law. If he was sleeping in his truck or an RV they could run him off, but if he's camped out in a tent there is nothing they can do. It would have to get completely out of hand before the police would get involved.
So, not only did I forget about the fact he was over the property line, I abandoned that whole side of my yard. I started going in and out of the door on the other side of the trailer so I wouldn't have to deal with it and I kept my curtains closed. I did keep an eye on him when he'd start a campfire by his tent because I didn't want my place burned down by an idiot alcoholic, and no, I don't know if he went in the house to use the bathroom. I did not want to know exactly where he did his....business.
I decided to wait it out. I figured that sooner or later the situation next door would blow sky-high and he'd pull up his tent stakes and be gone. I only had to run him out of my yard once and it only took one time for his buddies to get the idea that I really was an Old Bitch. One of them probably has scars from the ass-chewing he got for knockin' on my door by mistake.
It took several weeks but moving day finally arrived. Tent Guy asked if I could give him a jump because his battery had died and he was "gettin' the Hell out." Miraculously, I produced a set of cables---TA-DAAAH!---and I was more than happy to help.
"Of all the yards I've ever stayed in, this one's the worst! They've screwed (he didn't use the word "screwed") with my truck and stolen half of my tools and I'm leaving here!"
This wasn't some fella just down on his luck and trying to get his life back together. This was a lifestyle CHOICE. He was just driftin' from yard to yard, giving people a little cash for a camping space and doing odd jobs here and there.
Months have passed now and the couple that allowed Tent Guy to crash in the yard have split for parts unknown. I did the Dance Of Joy when the last truckload of their belongings pulled out of the drive. I was kinda worried about what was gonna move in next.
Well, I've met my new neighbors and all I can say is:
Mr. Trump, if you want to build a border wall, I have a good place for you to start.
