CINCINNATI — Look, I’m not one to judge how people spend their afternoons, but the man who’s been standing on my old lawn for three straight weeks with a running chainsaw and zero expression is starting to test the limits of what’s considered neighborly. I moved out last month. He didn’t.
At first, it was kind of flattering. I thought maybe he missed me or admired my hedge work. But now he’s just there. Every single day. Staring. Not trimming anything. Not saying anything. Just standing with that vibrating, gas-powered symbol of imminent dread like he’s waiting for a Home Depot sale on alibis.
I’ve contacted local authorities, and they assured me he’s “within his rights” as long as the chainsaw stays in the off position. It doesn’t. It hums. Constantly. Like it’s thinking. Occasionally, he points it at the house like he’s threatening the siding. I’m not saying he’s unstable, but if the shed disappears, I know who did it.
Neighbors say he’s “quiet” and “really into lumber.” One woman told me he once built a rocking chair and then refused to sit in it because “that’s how they get you.” I don’t know what that means, but it feels relevant. The chair’s still outside. Upside down. Watching.
All I’m asking is for a little self-awareness. If you must menace architecture, do it with a clipboard or a contractor’s estimate. Don’t lurk like a horror movie extra waiting to unionize. I no longer live there. The house has moved on. He should too. Preferably without the chainsaw. Or the gaze that suggests he knows what I buried under the porch in 2011. Which was legal. Probably.
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