More days and more tales of woe, more smiles from Ricky and more arguments between my husband and me. Finally-after my husband refused to be budged from Nola’s front doorstep, a payment was made. Twenty of the forty-five.
Sarah and I became better friends. It dawned on me that she had long sought an ally in her own battles with the Nabbits. “Don’t let the Nabbits turn us into rabbits,” she would proclaim.
At eleven p.m., the Suburban Avenger sought her secret weapon. The baseball game had just ended, but the lights were still glaring on the field. The Nabbits had driven off to the store to buy more beer. The Avenger took the ice cold water from the refrigerator and filled the trusty spray bottle. She knew she only had a few moments to act. She took her stance, steadied her weapon. Stream setting again. Squeezed the trigger. Her aim, perfected from practice on a certain Bassett hound, was true. As the icy water hit each hot light bulb, the bulbs went out with a satisfying pop and the Avenger returned to her hideout with time to spare…
The city changed to automated trash collection in October, and like other households, our four, individual, thirty-gallon trash cans were replaced with one large, wheeled monstrosity provided by the city. The rules were clearly stated. The attached lid on the new container must be closed when placed at the curb. No overloading. If you threw away more than fit in the trash can, you paid a charge for excess trash.
With two adults using a trash can designed to hold the trash of a family of five, we had no problems staying within the limits. But from the first week of the new program, there was trouble. I put the trash out, and went inside. Later, when I went out to place the recycling bin at the curb, I noticed our trash can, like the Nabbits’, was overflowing. When I lifted the lid, I discovered that the Nabbits had placed several bags of their trash into our trash can.
I began to wait until Nola had left for work to put the trash out. Inconvenient, but effective. And it meant that I put the trash out every week, instead of sharing the chore with my husband.
My husband bewildered me by siding with Nola on this issue. He thought my outrage was wholly unjustified. “What if they’re dumping something toxic into our trash can? Something illegal?” I asked.
“It’s just trash,” he said. Then, for good measure, added, “We’ll never see that twenty-five dollars.”
It was after he left for work that morning that my Suburan Avenger fantasies began. As the afternoon wore on, I was shocked at the avenues my own imagination would take in the name of righteous anger. I wanted to plant my fist in Ricky’s smiling face.
In the next moment, I was ashamed of myself for thinking such a thing. Was this the result of watching westerns as a kid? Too much violence on T.V.? Was I reading too many mysteries?
I calmed down. The Suburban Avenger would be forced to stay in the realm of imagination. I needed to find a legal remedy. I went to the library and checked out a well-worn book on suing in small claims court, and began the process. I was finally becoming a true Californian. I was going to sue someone.
I realized that I had only heard the Nabbit’s last name. Were there two t’s or one? Two b’s or one? I tried the phone directory. No Nola Nabbit listing.
The Suburban Avenger whispered in my ear.
I let my husband put the trash out.
After he left for work, but long before the garbage trucks arrived, I checked my trap. Sure enough, the trash can was bulging with added material. I felt nothing but smug satisfaction as I pulled a bag of Nabbit trash from the trash can, took it into my backyard and set it on a table I used for gardening.
My excitement built as I rummaged-wearing old clothes and a pair of rubber gloves-though the Nabbit bag. Few things can tell our secrets as throughly our trash will. The courts had long ago ruled that once a person put their trash out at a curb, the expectation of privacy was gone. Trash was fair game. Even if Nola hadn’t dumped the bag in my trash can, it would have been legal to search it. Still, I felt better knowing that she had walked the bag over to my side of the street. She should keep her trash out of my trash can, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.
It didn’t take long to find an envelope addressed to Nola. It was marked “Please open immediately” and came from the electric company. It contained a past due notice. I didn’t want to slog through the beer bottles, coffee grounds and cigarette butts that made up the next layer of the bag. I had what I needed. Feeling bad about not recycling the beer bottles, but knowing their presence in my recycling bin would be a dead giveaway, I hauled the Nabbit trash bag back out to the container at the curb.
I typed up the forms needed to begin the process of suing Nola, and filed them down at the courthouse. She bellowed her outrage in her typical fashion when the papers were served.
In December, our case went to trial. She dressed like a hooker for court and made a wholly inarticulate case for her defense. When the judge failed to accept her theory that Ted should be responsible for the damage, she shook her fist at him and insulted his antecedents, which undoubtedly did not help her in the least.
Not surprised that she lost case, I was shocked when she actually paid the judgment. I cashed the check and presented the funds to my husband. “Twenty-five dollars, plus my court costs,” I said. He wasn’t nearly as pleased as I thought he’d be.
“Now we have to worry about them going to war with us,” he said.
“‘Don’t let the Nabbits turn us into rabbits!’” I quoted.
For all my bravado at that moment, I began to fear he was right. The next day, Ricky sat on his porch, staring toward our house with a blantantly hostile expression. I was afraid to leave the house, even for a few moments, worried that he might do some sort of damage while I was gone. My husband’s predictions of war came to mind. I crossed the street to Sarah’s house.
After she congratulated me on my victory in court, she agreed to keep an eye on my house while I took care of some errands. As I walked back to my driveway, I heard Ricky laughing mirthlessly behind me.
I finished my errands, then drove to a nearby department store. There I purchased various articles of dark clothing. Together, they created an ensemble which roughly matched the one I had imagined the Suburban Avenger donning for her escapades.
As I pulled back into the driveway, Ricky came back out onto his porch, to resume his stare-athon. I took the bags of clothing from my trunk and felt my confidence surge as I clutched them. I slammed the trunk and turned to return Ricky’s stare. He went back into his house. Triumphant, I hid the clothing in the back of my closet. One never knew when a Suburban Avenger might be needed.
I later learned that Ricky was arrested that same evening, breaking into Sarah’s house. He was going to be tried as an adult, and there was little doubt in anyone’s mind that he would be convicted.
“Those two old prunes, they’ve been out to get my boy from the beginning!” Nola raged to other neighbors. She didn’t find many sympathetic listeners, but her bad-mouthing was so non-stop, it began to grow irritating.
Not nearly as irritating, though, as her practice of turning on the light Ricky had mounted for baseball games. At two or three in the morning, our bedroom would suddenly be flooded with light. When I tried to talk to her about it, she flipped me the bird and slammed her front door in my face.
The next day, on my front lawn, I found a pile of dog droppings so large, it could have been collected from a kennel. The war, it seemed was on. Thinking of her gesture at the door, I decided to buy a bottle of herbicide.
On the next trash day, my husband put the trash out. From my kitchen window, I could see that the lid was propped open. I walked out to the curb, and sure enough, there were extra bags of trash in our container. Consumed by curiosity, and ready to prepare for a little payback, I surreptitiously pulled the two Nabbit bags out and took them to the backyard.
Donning my trash-searching outfit again, I began carefully removing items from one of the bags. Most of the garbage was food waste that could go directly into a new bag. That done, I studied what remained, paying more attention to the contents this time. I began to know Nola Nabbit.
She smoked Winston filtered cigarettes and whatever she rolled up into ZigZag cigarette papers. She drank a variety of budget beers, and had polished off one bottle of cheap white table wine. She had been late on her mortgage payment this month. She drank a lot of coffee and her family ate a lot of fast food. She had been to see a podiatrist, and apparently hadn’t paid him on time. She had been invited to a wedding. She had received a reminder card for Daisy’s next dental appointment.
She had thrown away a pair of medium black stockings with a run in them, and replaced them with another pair of the same expensive brand. Apparently, a good pair of stockings were important to her. Objectively, I had to
