I am never opening my door again. Ever.

I’ve written before about how there seem to be crazy old dudes everywhere I go. Well, that seems to be holding true for life here in Waycross. Before I write this piece, let me explain my new neighborhood a little for the benefit of those who haven’t heard the full description prior. My house is located in an extremely poor, nearly all black neighborhood. I spent a month here before I moved to Korea, during which time I began to refer to it as the ghetto, not for its all-blackness, but for its incredibly high crime rate (most of which originated at the house next door to mine). As I mentioned previously, the group from the house next door was evicted while I was in Korea, leaving my neighborhood with a distinctly different feel. It’s still an extremely poor, nearly all black neighborhood, but it no longer feels quite so ghettoish.

I have a very difficult time understanding the speech of my neighbors. Poor Southern dialects and accents, both white and black, are often incredibly strong. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the past two years perfecting my slow, clearly enunciated ESL English. I feel like I’m speaking a different language from my neighbors, and often find myself reverting to that bad habit I picked up while overseas: If you don't understand, smile and nod. (Unless you're in Russia, in which case, just nod.)

There’s an old guy (who may actually be younger than my father, but who seems quite older) who lives about a block down my street. He managed to convince my mom to pay him $10 to mow my yard while I was in Korea. Those of you who know my mom (The Queen of Cheap) should probably be amazed at this feat. Those of you who know me should realize that I was all too happy to continue that arrangement with him after returning to the states. I rather assumed that someone introduced to me by my mother would be alright… although come to find out this fellow is completely nuts. Although even after my bizarre adventures with him today, I still feel like he’s mostly harmless. Just crazy.

So anyhow, he showed up last week to mow the lawn, and was telling me, among other things, that he needed to get some weed-killer to kill the weeds that were growing up out of my foundation. He showed up this afternoon and asked if I could drive him over to go pick up some of that weed-killer he’d told me about, if I wasn’t busy. While we were talking, he asked what line of work I was in, and when I told him ESL, and that I’d just gotten back from Korea, he started rattling off a bunch of phrases in Korean! Apparently he served in Korea with the US Army. Not sure if it was during the war or not. I didn’t think much of his request to drive him to get weed-killer until after stopping at the first house, we went to another, then another, then another… before finally he came out, not holding anything at all like weed-killer, although saying, “Finally! A home run!” Um, ok. Then he asked what he owed me for helping him, did I want a share? Um, no. I didn’t want to know what I’d just helped this dude purchase, and made with all haste to deposit him back at his doorstep.

And then it gets better. Or worse, you might say. A few minutes later, he shows up at my door again, with a large plastic bag of things for me. Clothes, mostly. Hideous, and looking rather like they came out of a dumpster. (I am no snob when it comes to clothing; most of my clothes came from yard sales or a thrift stores. When I say these looked like they came out of a dumpster, I am completely serious.) He then asked if, in exchange for the clothes, he could take a shower at my house, since his water had been shut off. Next time I’m just going to flat-out say no, because offering the weak (but true) excuse of not having extra towels, etc., didn’t deter the man in the least. Next thing I knew, there was some crazy old dude I barely knew taking a shower in my bathroom. And when he was finished, before getting dressed, he felt the need to pop out into the living room in the nude to ask me if I’d “ever had an affair with a Nubian.” I shot him one of my famous scowls (which I’ve never seen, but I’m told are quite vicious) and said No, quite firmly. He scurried off and got dressed. On his way out he tried to kiss me, but I told him (again, quite firmly) that he could not kiss me. As I shooed him out the door, he told me Salaam Aleikum. Sheesh.

I am never opening my door for anyone ever again. Although that might prevent me from getting my lawn mowed.