The Fence

When I first moved to America, my biggest moment of culture shock was - possibly oddly - to do with the fencing. In England we have brick walls or hedges around our gardens or yards, or stout wooden fencing of the kind against which a neighbour's child can kick a football for the best part of an afternoon to the rapturous delight of everyone within earshot. In America the default seems to be chain link fencing, which turns everything into a scene from Boyz n the Hood; so that no matter how nice one's garden may be, horticulturally speaking, you're always half expecting to see a ten-year old Ice Cube discovering a dead body in the alley at the back. They don't have chain link fencing in the better neighbourhoods but, on the other hand, the better neighbourhoods are mostly populated by people you wouldn't want as neighbours.

We know this because we have one living right next to us, an individual I'm naming Squidward for the sake of argument, a man who quite clearly wishes he lived in a better neighborhood. Our guess is that he was born into money with certain expectations but fucked up, obliging him to rent a place he can actually afford in these, his later years. He doesn't like cats, which is a shame, because we have fifteen of them along with a cat colony license, as approved by the city, which means we can have as many as we want. When he first kicked off, we very briefly entertained the idea of cat proof fencing which features an overhang at the top and keeps all of your cats in your own yard. We entertained the idea for as long as it took for us to notice how much that stuff would cost.

Then we saw that it was possible to buy the overhanging topper at a fraction of the price and attach it to an existing wooden fence so as to similarly prevent the daily feline exodus into Squidward's yard, there to deposit turd after turd after turd. This seemed a cheaper option but for the fact that we first needed a wooden fence to which the topper could be attached. We obtained quotes, one from Lowes, one from some other guy. The quote from Lowes suggested we would only be able to fence one side of our garden, specifically Squidward's side. The store representative told us that his guys would be able to work around the existing trees while ripping out the chain link and replacing it with wood to a height of six feet. He also warned us against hiring any old Chuck in a truck for the job. The other guy, who may actually have been called Chuck and who turned up in a truck, gave us the same quote for the same work except that he'd have to cut down all of the trees. We went with Lowes.

City and utility people came to check the ground for power lines, and then our garden was transformed into a building site for a couple of days. We hadn't told Squidward what we were doing. The fence was on our side of the property line meaning we were under no legal obligation to tell him anything, and that was part of the fun. The guys spent the first day cutting back tree limbs, pruning, and ripping up the existing fence, finishing up with a series of holes into which fence posts would be cemented. Next day, the fence started to go up.

From time to time we went outside to see how they were getting on, hoping Squidward hadn't been out there giving them any shit. Then we learned to our utter amazement, that his response to the sight of this fence springing up unannounced had been to additionally contract the guys to fence sections of his yard on the other side of his house, or rather the other side of the house he rents. This was sort of a relief, suggesting that Squidward endorsed the fence to some extent. We'd been expecting legal action, despite his having no leg to stand on, purely because he's a complete wanker whose mission in life seems to be a never ending quest for disappointment in the behaviour and actions of those around him. Typically, he was already starting to piss the workmen off, apparently being unable to decide what he actually wanted them to do. We watched them rolling their eyes as they muttered to each other while sawing and hammering.

Ever since Squidward snitched to Animal Control, he's been an elusive presence, and I get the impression that he's scared of us. Where once he seemed to be out in his garden all the fucking time, impossible to avoid and stripped to the waist with his pinched orange face and wrinkly tanning salon physique, suddenly he became scarce. Now, as the day drew near to its close, with the fencing mostly up, he was back in his garden and we could hear him giving instruction to the workmen. He wanted to know why he'd ended up with the ugly side of the fence, as he called it, the side with the horizontal beams to which the vertical slats are secured. He spoke to the workmen as persons of his kind tend to speak to all manual labourers, as people whose work will later be scrutinised so as to ensure they've done the job properly. He called them back to pick up stray bits of wood, to do a better job of trimming certain branches, and then complained about the soil they had moved when sinking the fence posts. We could hear him having a tantrum behind the fence, stomping around and muttering to himself.

Well, I suppose I'll just have to pick this up myself.

Later he was joined by Mrs. Squidward as he inspected the fence at the front. We'd always assumed the ordinarily reclusive Mrs. Squidward to be some silent, long-suffering observer to her partner's one man war of indignation against the rest of the street, but we could hear her questioning as to whether the cats would still be able to jump over this section of fence, suggesting she might not even know what cats are or understand how they work.

At length, it dawned on us. The Squidwards considered themselves the injured party due to their being better bred and therefore in the right. We were only doing our best to appease them, in our own admittedly ham-fisted way, which is why Squidward ended up with the ugly side of the fence, the fence we'd paid for and had built for him.

My wife took the guys some beers once they were done. We all understood each other very well regarding the neighbour. Squidward probably still believes the object of the fence is to keep cats out of his precious yard, or at least out of his landlord's precious yard. While we're keen to reduce the numbers for the obvious reason that we don't want our cats anywhere near the horrible cunt, the main reason for the fence is so we don't have to see his miserable orange ass; and we probably won't be bothering with the cat proofing toppers. There doesn't seem much point when the fence only runs down one side of our garden.

One week passes. I see him obsessively polishing a tiny mark on his beloved automobile, so I step outside, loudly announcing to my wife, 'I'm just going out to look at the grass,' but he scuttles away, and in any case the term grass, meaning informer or copper's narc is not widely understood in America.

Two weeks later as I'm coming back from the store, I hear him call. 'Hey, Lornce,' as he pronounces my name, clearly trying hard to sound casual. I ignore him. He's probably only calling because he sees that our driveway is empty. My wife is not at home and he seems to be terrified of her. He calls again but I have nothing to say to the cunt. I don't even look in his direction as I go around the side of the house and close the gate.