Since moving from Buford, I sadly don’t see many of my former neighbors very often. I got a call from a great friend who needed help with her Wi-Fi setup. The Geek Squad had made a mess of it, so she called in a professional. After wading through the misery of a Geek Squad hack job, I worked it all out and even got to hang out with a 3 week old adorable baby girl that was made of cuteness.
As I was bidding farewell to my former neighbor, Cleveland was walking up the street and saw me. He greeted me and asked me how I was doing and expressed that he had missed me. It was a touching moment that was entirely destroyed a moment later by asking me for a favor. Honestly, considering the nearly non-existent number of people willing to do him a favor, I’m surprised he’s been able to live without my intervention on a semi-daily basis.
When last we checked in on Cleveland, his mother had passed away and his brother had kicked him out of the house they were living in so he could live there instead. He went to live with an old PTSD-afflicted Vietnam vet named “Jurral” who lived just down the street. The trailer is a grey box, devoid of any charm, that can only be described as that place at a prison where the conjugal visits happen, except not as nice.
Jurral has been what we will loosely refer to as “living” with PTSD since his return from Vietnam. He is constantly drunk and walks around the streets of Buford all day in search of money that someone might give him and his next beer. He has been hit by vehicles at least 4 times from his slow ambling through the streets and, when the mood strikes him, will pull out his penis anywhere he is to relieve his bladder. I’m not happy to say, I’ve seen his penis more than once. I think that Jurral was the original muse for the creator of the zombies for The Walking Dead.
Cleveland was beside himself that day because he was out of beer. The only way beer would happen was if someone would take Jurral to the bank so he could withdraw a few dollars. For nostalgia sake, I decided I would take them to the bank and meanwhile, catch up with Cleveland and his living la vida loca lifestyle. Thankfully, I live in Georgia. It was a nice spring-esque day that allowed me to roll down the windows. The layer upon layer of beer odor and body funk would have been enough to kill a yak.
Cleveland told me that he missed me because of the intelligent conversations we had. He explained that Jurral, while having a good heart, spent most of his time locked in his own head discussing his Vietnam experiences and complaining about black people. Cleveland seems to have a problem with Jurral’s racism. I can’t begin to tell you how much this amuses me, because Cleveland uses the N-word and other racial epithets more often than anyone I know. I can only imagine what kind of vile bigotry must spill out of Jurral’s mouth to bother Cleveland.
Cleveland poured out a tale of woe concerning his wife, Donna. As discussed previously, when Cleveland was removed from his home, his brother Michael moved into his house with his wife and two children. One child has autism and the other is just dumb as a brick. I suppose it runs in the family. Donna was allowed to stay in the house as a live-in babysitter. They are taking advantage of her pending homelessness to make sure they can do the things they want without having to worry about the kids. In any other situation, I’d also think that Michael might have also set that up to “get some strange” on the side, but Donna is not remotely attractive. On a scale of 1 to 10, Donna is a -4. Donna is so ugly, Keith Richards makes fun of her looks. HEY, looks aren’t everything! Maybe she has a great personality. Well, no. She seems to be a ball of hate. I can understand that, being married to Cleveland. I won’t even go into her intelligence. She’s married to Cleveland.
Donna had gotten the idea that Cleveland had been messing around with some girl he knew from high school and has been telling Cleveland to get lost, using a variety of swearing and vulgar hand gestures. Cleveland swore this was not the case. He was trying to help her with work around her yard to get beer. I could, at this point, believe that he was being truthful, because beer seems to be the primary motivation in his life. He and Jurral had done a lot of work in her front yard, with removing leaves and other detritus. At the end of his seemingly endless toiling, he was paid with one beer. One sad Keystone Light beer.
Over the course of the 20 minutes or so I spent with Cleveland, he admitted he had tried to hook up with this mysterious woman that Donna had accused him of messing with, but he couldn’t do it. She apparently was addicted to crack, handicapped, and very ugly when she was naked. I let that one slide for a variety of reasons, the least of which might drive me to madness a-la staring into the gaping maw of Cthulhu.
Life continues for Cleveland and Jurral. He invited me over for beer and conversation. I told him I’d come by when I had time at some point. For this to happen, though, I’d have to lose my olfactory sense, and all of my common sense. I still go to Buford occasionally. I’m sure I’ll run into Cleveland again. But for now, I’m satisfied with the apparent fact that God does indeed take care of fools.