The Gardeners Anonymous Blog

Miata and Meth Addict Part 2

I asked the chicken-dancing man once again if he was alright, and once again, he was unable to produce a straight answer. So I asked him a different question: “Excuse me sir, have you been drinking?” This question triggered a round of wild arm-flailing reminiscent of a marionette having a spasm.  He answered with a word one wouldn’t expect from a tattooed sports car driver wearing all black and chains.  “No, I haven’t been drinking!” he insisted.  “I’m just . . . FLUSTERED!” 

Once out of his car, Chicken-Dancing Man was running all around my yard while running his mouth with his disjointed story. Apparently, he was trying to get to L.A., he left his cell phone on his girlfriend’s dresser (no doubt right next to his map of California and his crack pipe), and he swerved to avoid a rabbit.

He began following me around closely, begging me to use my phone. I told him to sit down on a piece of lawn furniture while I went to get a phone.

He lit on the chair for a split second, more like a hummingbird than a chicken. By the time I had turned my back, he was up and running through what used to be my fence, across the street to my neighbor’s house. 

As I walked inside my house, the phone was ringing. It was my neighbor asking if I was o.k. and letting me know that she had just called the police on the chicken dancer and was sending her husband over to help.  I let her know that I was fine, but that the chicken dancer was now at her front door.  I could hear him all the way from where I was, telling the same story about the rabbit, the phone, the drive to L.A. 

I dialed the sheriff myself, just to make sure that there they were on the way, and then I picked up my camera and walked back outside.

Chicken Dancer was on the phone to his father, supposedly.   

At this point, he was beginning to realize that his predicament was only going to get worse by sticking around, so he hung up the phone and danced over to the sideways Miata. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I knew he wasn’t going anywhere, my neighbors knew he wasn’t going anywhere, but Chicken Dancer seemed to think that if he revved his engine hard enough, his tires would magically reconnect with the ground and he would be on his speedy way again. 

It was just about this time the first sheriff pulled up.  

He sauntered over to the man in the slanted car and spoke to him for a few minutes while the neighbors and I stood across the street making bets on what kind of drugs were coursing through Chicken Dancer’s system. 

Soon, another sheriff arrived, followed closely by a fire engine.

When two more sheriffs showed up, I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt that I had no doughnuts to offer.  Then the EMT vehicle pulled in and unloaded their gurney.  They wheeled over to the Chicken Dancer, who was being quietly interrogated by a large group of various uniformed men.

By the time the CHP showed up, Chicken Dancer was having his person searched. It was clear he would not be driving to L.A., or home, or anywhere that day. 

All I Wanted Was A Fence Covered With Vines and Instead I Got a Miata and a Meth Addict.

Over the past several weeks I have been busily amending the soil, tweaking the drip system, and planting three types of vines all along my upper fence so that our family can enjoy more privacy and also so that the dogs would bark less at passersbys. Every morning, I would pour myself a cup of coffee and head up to the top of my property to check on them. I planted fast-growing vines, and could actually see them making progress every day as they stretched up towards the morning sun. Ah, those were the days of hope and prosperity…the blissful days before one man’s night of partying and addiction crushed my hopes, my dreams, and, well…my vines.

I was lying in my bed, cozy and happy in the knowledge that I still had another hour before I had to get up. And then I heard an engine revving up my hill, fast, followed by a loud crash. It got me out of bed alright. If I was a cat, I would have been stuck to the ceiling.

I looked out of the window and I saw a green sports car lying on its side in my yard and wearing most of my upper fence as a hood ornament. I heard the hysterical voice of a man.

I slipped on my Uggs (o.k. I lied: my Bear Claws. I am too cheap to buy Uggs) and my robe. Fashion was not my first concern. I ran down my stairs, secured my dogs, who were looking quite puzzled at the strange vehicle’s parking job.

I bolted out the door to my side yard. I approached the car and its flailing driver. He was talking loudly to no one in particular. He was tall, and tattooed, somewhere around thirty. He was sporting a large gold MC Hammer-ish chain around his neck. He had black hair, a black t-shirt, black jeans and giant black sideburns. Elvis meets Johnny Cash with a sprinkling of Sid Vicious.

I asked him if he was o.k. I never got an answer, just a steady stream of words. Words about a missing cell phone, a girlfriend, swerving to miss a rabbit, looking for Los Angeles, All the while the words were spewing, the Country Western, Punk Elvis was doing this strange flailing chicken dance. I gazed past the flapping Elvis, behind him I saw his car resting with all its weight on top of my brand new vines.

...to be continued