The Neighbor Boy

Come to think of it, he did seem a little off

Here's a short piece I wrote for the current issue of
Hot Valley Writers about a scary little boy who had it in for my youngest son.  It's called "Kill Kotty."

Nothing prepared me for a scary little barefoot boy named Josef, who moved to the neighborhood with his huge Orthodox family. He liked to stand at the top of our driveway, watching Scotty, my then-eight year old, play basketball. Josef would tilt his head and say, in a freaky Damian-like slur, “Kill Kotty! Kill Kotty!” I wasn’t sure whether to take these death threats too seriously. But I couldn't just ignore them. The kid was a notorious rock thrower, and rumor had it he was capable of strange feats of strength, like bending back metal latches with his hands. Late at night, he'd crawl out of his second-story window, slide down the roof and ride his bike, barefoot, down busy streets.

One afternoon, Scotty and his older brother Billy, then twelve, were in the backyard playing baseball. They heard the side gate open. Suddenly Josef appeared. He picked up a bat and started swinging. I sprinted outside to find Josef, at least three inches shorter than both of my sons and half their weight, aiming for their heads. Maybe he just wanted to join in the fun. Or maybe the time had come to make good on that threat. “Kill Kotty! Kill Kotty!”

I ran over and got right in the middle of it. “Hey!” I screamed. “Stop that!” Josef started swinging at me. “Give me the bat,” I said. He swung harder, getting closer to my midsection. I started darting around like an idiot. My sons thought this was hilarious. They couldn't stop laughing as I tried to get the bat away from Josef. Man, did I fake him out. I made him think I was going left when I was really going right. I was so quick, I grabbed the bat right out of his hands. My sons hooted and hollered. Score one for Mom. I took Josef’s arm. “Come on, I’m bringing you home.” He looked at me, stunned. Huh? Playtime’s over?

A moment later, I dragged him down the street to his house and rang the doorbell. His mother appeared, surrounded by eight other children. She had no idea Josef had escaped and looked surprised when he bolted inside. She stared at me, uncomfortably. We’d never met before. “Is there a problem?” she said. “I’m afraid so. Tell me what I’m supposed to do when Josef shows up in my backyard, swinging a bat at my sons?” “Josef did that?” Just then, her husband appeared. He had a long beard, wore a long black coat and black hat. “Yes?” “I’m your neighbor up the street,” I said. “I was just asking your wife what I’m supposed to do when Josef shows up in my backyard, swinging a bat at my sons.” “Just hit him,” he said. “Are you serious? You want me to hit your son?” “Yes. Hit him. He deserves it, the little trouble-maker.” “Are you sure that’s what you want to tell me to do? Hit your son?! That’s the best advice you can give me?” “Yes.” With that, the door slammed in my face.

On Monday, I called Child Services. Within an hour, they showed up to investigate Josef’s parents. They started a file and gave stern warnings. They said they’d be back, but that was about it. Even though I made the call anonymously, the family knew it was me. A few days later, two cops rang my doorbell. One of them flashed his badge and informed me that a woman down the street had reported me for harassing her family. I invited the cops inside and told them the sad tale of Josef, a "special needs" kid whose family neglected him. The officers took notes, nodded their heads and left satisfied that the short person opposite them wasn’t the harasser in question.

Josef never swung a bat at my sons, or threatened to “Kill Kotty” again. He never got the chance. We decided our quiet little neighborhood had reached its expiration date. After nine years of living there, we moved. We were still getting settled in our new home when a huge Orthodox family moved next door to us. Let's face it. Karma's a bitch.