Street theatrics directed at Bob

New Orleans street theater invaded our sleep early New Year’s Eve morning.

The shouts from the street were just loud at first, not intelligible. That’s not unusual on the minor stage that is Laurel Street. Especially on weekends. Grit’s Bar around the corner caters to patrons whose thirsts outlast normal closing hours.

So we first thought the yelling that kept lapping over the barrier between sleep and wake conciousness was an outburst of overindulgence. Then as shouts spilled fully over into our wakened consciousness, the words began to register:

BOB, GET YOUR #!~ UP, BOB. YOU LIED TO ME YOU &*! of a @!#tX!

It was directed to our neighbor, Bob. Party Bob. Old friend Bob.

YOUR XX!*ING DOGS WAKE ME UP EVERY MORNING AT 6 A.M.! I’M GOING TO X!*# YOU UP, BOB! I’M GOING TO X!*#ING KILL YOUR DOGS!

Bob owns two or more dogs. The dogs spend most of their time within his fenced yard, but early every morning, he lets them loose for a romp through the streets of our neighborhood. Randy the dog utilizes his outing for off-premises pooping. Marguerita the other dog enjoys scavenging for discarbed edibles, especially chicken bones. Precious the granddog – I’m not sure of Precious’ specialty.

I’M GOING TO X!*# YOU UP, BOB! I’M GOING TO X!*#ING KILL YOUR DOGS! THOSE XX!*ING DOGS BARK EVERY MORNING AT 6 A.M.!

It was probably the new neighbor on Upperline Street, we told each other, now fully awake. His back yard joins Bob’s back yard. One morning he walked by and asked us whose dogs barked every morning. We played dumb, not wanting to rat out Bob’s dogs and not sure that Bob’s dogs were really the culprits. There is another neighbor whose back yard also joins the guy on Upperline. Maybe his dog is the culprit.

BOB, GET YOUR #!~ UP, BOB. YOU LIED TO ME YOU &*! of a @!#tX!

By this time, we could also hear less loud voices and wondered if Bob was calmly confronting the man. The shouting stopped for a while and then resumed some minutes later. We wondered if someone had called the police or what.

Finally, the yelling in the night ceased and we resumed our sleep.

Early the next morning, I asked the guards at the FEMA camp across the street if the police come. The guard said no, that it had been three guys – the one who did the yelling and two more who kept trying to quieten him and get him home.

They had made a trip to Grit’s Bar, the guard told me, and then returned. The Upperline guy had stopped and delivered a yelling spree going and coming, the guard said.

Not two days later, another outburst was directed at Bob – this time from an occupant of the FEMA trailer directly across the street from his house.

Also directly across the street from Bob’s house was the construction debris piled there by the workers who are remodeling Bob’s house. Ever since Katrina, we have piled debris on the curb across the street. Occasionally some contractor with a dump truck and a Bobcat will come by, load the debris and haul it away.

However, a lady who now lives in the trailer next to the newest debris pile took exception to its placement and was waiting for Bob’s return. When a man and woman drove up in a car and parked in front of Bob’s house, she assumed it was them.

Her unleashed fury was more direct and concise than the drunken neighbor from two nights before.

JUST BECAUSE I LIVE IN A TRAILER WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I WANT ALL OF YOUR OLD NASTY GARBAGE PILED UP NEXT TO MY HOUSE?? HOW’D YOU LIKE IT IF I CAME ACROSS THE STREET AND PILED MY GARBAGE IN YOUR FRONT YARD?

And so the outburst continued until the guy finally recovered sufficient wit to blurt out: "But lady, I don’t live here." Then he drove off.

The formerly irate lady, now embarrassed and with her wrath spent, slunk on back to her FEMA trailer.

And just few minutes later, Bob and his wife arrived, having returned from a weekend out-of-town trip and completely oblivious to two wonderful performances presented especially on their behalf on the stage of the theater that is Laurel Street.

The Panolian co-owner and publisher John Howell writes about New Orleans, Panola, and the strange and mundane between there and here. Contact him at johnhowl@bellsouth.net