Story time: yard chaos
[I told this story on Twitter today, 11/29/22, because I like to be as dramatic and ominous as possible.]
Friends, you may be aware that I often tell Neighborhood Gothic tales about the happenings on my street. I have another one.
So yesterday I look out the kitchen window and see about 15-20 fluorescent-vested workers (who do they work for? We just don’t know) hanging out about 1-2 houses down. Just chilling on both sides of the street, sitting on the storm drain, in the yards, what have you.
And they are more than welcome to; I just don’t know why. Tons of trucks around. Including multiple USIC trucks: People What Identify Your Underground Utilities. You may remember that I ran into one while I was tripping on yard nightshade. Good people, necessary, ideal.
I go about my business (cleaning out my tea kettle). Sometime later, loud machine noises. Bear in mind that I live in an area where there is always someone working loudly on something. Cutting down dangerous trees (RIP🌲), building new houses, eternally landscaping. I shrug.
I look out the window again. The corner of my neighbor’s yard is thoroughly dug up. Now, this summer, I watched a man cut down a whole-ass tree and every single bush (including two beautiful gardenias) of hers branch by branch. There are naught but stubs now.
Am I now that old lady who peers out the window at the doings of the street? Yes. Do I know Debra’s life? No. Do I have any idea why twenty workers are needed to dig up one corner of her yard? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Some hours later, my mom comes home for lunch. She is INCANDESCENT with rage. I assume it’s because our street is clogged with trucks. Why u mad tho? “WHY AREN’T YOU MAD?” After some confusion, my mom gets it through my placid head that the workers
are digging up
OUR YARD
I hadn’t looked out the FRONT window; our dog had been asleep and hadn’t needed to go out. There are three GIANT HOLES, like 3x3 and half a grave deep, at the street end of our yard, like prairie dog holes from hell. Nobody said FUCK ALL to me about this.
My mom’s higher self is a capable, savvy woman who knows her worth. My mom’s shadow self is a Karen. She marches out there to ask what the FUCK is going on. A foreman steps forward. “Oh, they didn’t put a letter on your door?” NO!!!!
I can’t tell if this [a tweet that did not in fact go through] went through or not, because they keep cutting off the wifi. There is a crane over my street now
What is GOING ON, asks my mom. “Something about fiber optic cables,” the foreman says. SOMETHING?? “Something about phones.” IN 2022??? We Just Don’t Know.
Holes begin to spread up the street.
By sundown, every single yard upstreet of mine has a minimum of three deep pits exposing Unknown Cables. Turf has been skinned off and thrown aside. I’m just like, this might as well happen. My mom now has a contractor’s business card. Neighbors are mad. Nobody was warned.
I’m out with Cooper on the deck (where he likes to chase falling leaves) in the dimming sunlight, and I happen to look around at the street.
Water is cascading down the road.
I live on a hill. You know how it looks during a hard rain, just little wavelets washing down the road? That. Water pouring down the entire width of the street, gutter to gutter. The deluge has already reached the intersection and shows no sign of stopping.
My phone has no wifi.
The Workers from Somewhere have hit a water main up the street. In front of a lawyer’s house, I’m told, so have fun with that. What I learn later is, despite there being 3-4 USIC trucks on the street, no one ever marked any utilities. Somebody told the workers not to wait.
Birmingham Water Works trucks, flashing their lights in the darkness, show up at 9 pm to fix the busted water main. Neighbors are wandering around fretting that the Great Flood of ‘22 is going to show up on their utility bills. The lawyer is very popular.
I get up this morning. By 6 am, they are back out there, doubling down. This is not the workers’ fault, btw. Honest day’s work, dishonest employer.
Every single house on my side of the street has a minimum of four (4) fiber optic prairie dog pits now.
I don’t know WHAT and I don’t know WHY. And now, there is a crane over my street for something happening underground. Orange cones and a giant wheel of orange and blue cable have appeared. Someone is brandishing a rake. End transmission for now.
UPDATE: The crane is ripping out a small tree (RIP 🌳) near the top of the street. I do not know if this is related or not. Either shit just got real with the cable digging, or we have dueling contractors.
[Situation in progress, more later]
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Twitter: December 13, 2022
I Have A Dentist Appointment This Afternoon For My Chipped Front Teeth And, Waiting For It In The Meantime, I Want To Throw Up
My sister is now at Urgent Care waiting to see if she has pneumonia, pleurisy, and/or blood clots in her lungs. I love December but man, FUCK this month
Goodish news, my sister has pleurisy but no blood clots, so we got that going for us
Newsish news, I need two zirconium crowns for my front teeth; the chips were ultimately caused by grinding my teeth in my sleep. Hilariously, zircon is my birthstone and my birthday is tomorrow (12/14).
Marriage equality is protected, I can get married someday, and a dance remix of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” is playing in the dentist’s office. A Day
Bonus info for you alone, Tumblr, where the Redacted Internet Provider does not have a presence: lmao my mom found smoking-gun photos of them fucking up our sewer line
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you know what i’d like to see? i’d like to see Andrew realise what Neil’s duffle bag means to him. that he’s carried his entire life inside that bag for years. that, after all, they’re not that different — it’s not like Andrew got to take much from foster home to foster home.
i want Andrew to start buying random things for Neil. little things, big things, unimportant things. small trinkets that don’t mean much, except they mean that Neil’s whole life can’t be packed into a bag anymore. that he can’t just run in the middle of the night.
by the time Andrew graduates it would take a whole moving truck to ever put all of Neil’s belongings in. and they’re scattered too. Neil has stuff that is his — only his — not just at PSU, but at the house in Columbia, and at Andrew’s new place too.
so when Andrew graduates — through kisses and promises and badly-hidden sniffles — he gets rid of the old duffle, and replaces it with a beautiful leather holdall (something good enough for Neil) so that Neil can pack his stuff and come see him on weekends or during break.
and Neil can’t fit not even a tenth of his things in it, but that’s okay because this bag isn’t a tool to help him run and hide. but it fits just enough for him to come and see Andrew: for him to come home.
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