Stuff

My writer friend Mike had these neighbours living across the street from him. The neighbours were husband and wife and they had a couple of kids and a dog. The kids would ride around the cul-de-sac on tricycles and the dog would sit yapping at the front gate. 

Mike was never sure what the couple did for a living, but one day he started noticing from his study window the guy returning home in his metallic grey Volkswagen and unloading boxes of stuff into their house. Every night it would be something different – boxes and boxes of what looked like canned foods, stacks of old video tapes, and even some wooden pallets strapped with what looked like engine parts. The guy would pull up just as Mike was shutting down his laptop, open the boot and make four or five laboured trips between the car and his front door, breathing hard and looking redder in the face with each repetition.

 “Preparing for the apocalypse mate?” Mike had teased one sunny Sunday evening as he watered the lawn. His greeting was met with silence and an apparent doubling of effort from the  neighbour as he dutifully unloaded and heaved the day's fresh cargo. 

One day the guy's wife and kids left.  A few weeks later there was no room in the house for the dog either. It was relegated to a wire mesh cage on the edge of the drive. 

    In hindsight Mike could swear he’d noticed the house across the street starting to lean, and in the end they’d had to use a small JCB digger to get the guy out from under it. Half of him had been pressed into a fine paste. The dog had bounded up and eaten some for breakfast. 

*cover photo https://unsplash.com/@brandablebox*