Matt Daughenbaugh
The Neighbors
Of course, I could never say this aloud, but death is the best thing that can happen to some people. Take my neighbor Phil for example. Around this time last year, he finished dinner, walked to his favorite chair, and fell over while his wife was doing dishes. She called the ambulance and everyone came over in a big hurry like they’re supposed to, but there was nothing they could do. They loaded him up and took him to the hospital in Freeport. The EMT kid worked on him all the way there, but when they got to the emergency room, the doctor said he was likely dead before he hit the floor at home. Heart attack. He was only fifty-six.
They had the funeral a few days later, it was nice and everything. He volunteered on the fire department so instead of using the hearse from the funeral home, they loaded his casket on the back of a firetruck and took him to Twelve Mile Grove Cemetery out there by Seward. They buried him in the same row as his parents but just on the other side of the little gravel road. The luncheon was held at the fire station and they’re right when they say firemen can cook. They put out a nice spread of pulled pork bar-b-que that they smoked out back the day before. The VFW pitched in too and, of course, some people even brought a dish to pass.
Phil’s wife, Linda, looked good considering what she was going through. She was the same age, on the shorter side and what some would politely call heavy-set. She wore a purple floral dress that day that she had bought just for the occasion. She didn’t have much in the way of dresses in her closet. Most of the time she wore jeans when she went out or sweatpants when she was outside or working around the house. Her sister insisted on the new dress. Said it just wouldn’t be proper to wear jeans to her own husband’s funeral. What would people think?
What struck me the most about the way Linda looked that day was her face. The tension she’d worn for the last few years wasn’t there anymore. She was sad, for sure, and everybody could see that, but you could also see something that resembled relief, like when you finally get a chance to sit down after a long day at work with nothing to do but kick back and enjoy a cold beer.
Linda had a job at the local hospital working in the medical records office verifying everything before they sent the bill to the insurance company or the patient. It was a clean office job that didn’t pay much but, since she worked for the hospital, she had really nice insurance coverage for the both of them. Phil, on the other hand, hadn’t worked at all in the last five years. That’s when their problems really started to come to a head.
When Phil got out of the Army, he decided not to use the GI bill and go to college but rather go right to work over at Elco where they make screws and other bolts that hold things together. He thought it was stupid to get a degree when he could get a job making decent money right out of the service. College would just be a waste of time and he wanted to get ahead. He did pretty well for himself there for a while working his way up to a day shift manager. People at work really liked Phil. He was fair to the people who worked for him and he got along with just about anyone he met. He played on the company softball team during the summer and was captain of the bowling team on Wednesday nights during the winter.
They built their house in the cul-de-sac around the same time that we did and that’s how we met. All of us would hang out now and then, and, over the years, we got to know each other pretty well. We’d watch their house and get their mail when they went out of town and they would do the same for us if we needed it. Hell, Phil would even mow our grass once in a while just because he liked doing it. Good people, Phil and Linda.
When Phil lost his job, he didn’t take it well, but then who would have? I mean, you take everything a guy has done for his entire work life, all he has ever known, strip him of it, then walk him out of the plant like he’s garbage. Not because of anything he did, mind you, but because some jackass in a suit working in an office outside of Detroit decided this division would be more profitable for the company if they moved it to Korea. They actually told Phil that he and his co-workers were making too much money. Phil told me the guy who made the decision had never even stepped foot in the plant here. Never looked us in the eye, he said, just took everything we had with the stroke of a pen. That’s how they treat you after all you do for them. They shut your lifeline off like a faucet. But you still have a house payment and all the bills. It’s like one minute you’re on a dream cruise then all of a sudden the captain decides to throw you overboard.
After a while, things started to get rough so I tried to get Phil on at the construction company where I work. He was only there a month and quit, saying he just couldn’t do all the heavy lifting and physical labor that we do. I’m just not cut out for this shit, he said. I was a little pissed off because I had called in a favor and stuck my neck out a little bit for him, you know? And he didn’t even say sorry. We didn’t hang out as much after that.
I’m not saying we’re nosy neighbors, but sometimes we couldn’t help but notice all the empty cases and cans of Miller Lite that they put out in the garbage on Wednesdays. They didn’t make any effort to hide it and sometimes there were so many cases out there every week you’d think they had a big party or something. But we knew that it was just the two of them and she never touched the stuff. Sometimes at night we’d hear things. Like I said, Phil was a good guy, but when he’d get drunk, he was as mean as he was nice. There was so much yelling, like they didn’t care who heard, and once in a while we’d hear things break. My wife wanted to go over there and get in the middle of it all the time but I said it wasn’t our business and said we should stay out of it. Looking back maybe we could have helped, but then I doubt it.
Last time I saw Phil, it was like a month before he died. He was mowing the lawn on his rider and had somehow got it wrapped around the mailbox. The post was wedged between the front wheel and the blade deck which had bent back so far it popped the rear tire. I swear, he must have hit that post going full speed to mess it up that bad. Phil was on the side of the mower trying to pull it out by grabbing on to the seat and the back fender. Walking toward him, I could hear a string of cuss words coming out of his mouth as he tugged on the machine with all his weight. Just before I got to him, he lost his grip and fell backward on his ass. As he rolled on his back, his feet almost went over his head.
“Hey Phil, you okay, buddy? Need a hand?” I asked.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
He was so drunk that I’m not sure he even knew who I was. I tried to help him up and he stumbled to his feet.
“Fucking, leave it. It’s mine. I’ll deal with it. Everyone trying to take shit from me all the time. That’s all people do is take.”
“I’m not trying to take anything, Phil. Let me just help you get it up to the garage.”
“No, I can’t. I’ve got to go.”
“It’s okay, Phil, let me just help you get it up the driveway.”
“No. I need to get the hell out. Don’t you get it? I’ve got to go,” he yelled.
I backed off and as he walked up the driveway and into the garage, he kept saying that over and over to himself: I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go. Then the door slammed as he disappeared into the house. I figured I’d try to get the mower unstuck and at least push it up the driveway so he didn’t have to, but man, it was wrapped around that post good. I threw all my weight behind it and there was no budging it at all. The lawnmower stayed out front of Phil’s house tangled with the mailbox for the better part of a week. Then, one day I came home and it was gone.
Linda stopped by the other day. It was the first time we had really chatted with her since the funeral. After Phil died, she started running. I’d see her every now and then when I was going to work in the morning and we’d wave, but that was the extent of things. Seeing her up close for the first time in a year, she looked like a completely different person. She had lost weight and changed her hair but what I noticed most was that she looked happier than I had ever seen her. She apologized for being so distant and losing touch, but she wanted to let us know that she was listing the house and moving on.
Matt Daughenbaugh is a writer living in Dubuque, Iowa. His work has appeared in The Laurel Review.
@MJDaughenbaugh
Malasaña | Hudson, NY| Cargo Collective | Portland, ME | 2021