I Hate This Stupid Place

While driving, my husband said, “Must be dumbass day.”
He says that a lot when we drive.

As the driver of a Mercedes—phone in hand, either texting or emailing something clearly more important than our lives—drifts across two lanes, he adds, “If stupid were money, Alabama would be rich.”

When we first moved here, I used to defend them. It’s just a different culture, babe. We’re just adjusting.

By the second year, I softened it: It’s not all of them. There are a few decent people.

Now, three years in, I’ll admit it: I hate this stupid fucking place too.

It’s not stupidity in the sense of ignorance—it’s a self-centered, short-sighted oblivion. The kind that hurts others while somehow hurting itself, too. I’m no saint; I understand selfishness. But sometimes, simply considering another person’s well-being benefits you in the long run. These people, yes these people, have their priorities completely akimbo.

I can understand those who make bad choices out of pain—addicts, thieves, cheaters, abusers, the desperate. But this kind of casual cruelty, the thoughtless, everyday kind? I’ll never understand it.

Take our neighbors. Our eighty-something-year-old next-door neighbor—let’s call him John, because that’s his actual name—had his appendix removed this month. That same weekend, his wife, Joyce (also her real name), went on a girls’ trip to the beach.

This is so far removed from how I live my life. I couldn’t imagine leaving my spouse during post-op recovery. Maybe that says more about me than her.

And yet there was John: belly full of stitches, taking antibiotics, keeping company with nothing but the TV and an alarm clock.

Meanwhile, Joyce sipped margaritas with her girlfriends in the sunshine. My husband and I brought over chocolate cake, peanut butter cookies, beef stew, and biscuits. John thanked us, noted he hadn’t remembered to eat much that day, and—just to change the subject—asked if we’d noticed the pile of rocks in the yard across the street.

The next week, Joyce was gone again—off to Nashville with her adult daughter—leaving John alone once more. A year ago, when Joyce had knee replacement surgery, John didn't go anywhere. I guess that marriage only goes one way.

But before you pity John too much, let me clarify—he’s no better.

We also have a neighbor named Kenny. He lives in his childhood home and cared for his mother until she died last year. He has a dog, Newton, who sometimes escapes the yard only to sit right back down on the front porch. Kenny walks with a limp from a car accident in his teens that killed his brother. Whenever John and Joyce are out of town, Kenny limps across the street to get their mail and take out their trash. I would’ve called them friends.

A few weeks ago, Kenny had a taller fence installed, leaving a small pile of broken concrete in his yard. He assumed the city would pick it up—they take branches, leaves, appliances, toilets—so why not rocks? Apparently, they don’t.

Yesterday, John told us he’d called the city on Kenny’s “rock pile.” I hadn’t even noticed it until he pointed it out again. Kenny got fined and had to shovel the concrete into trash cans—then schedule and pay for a special pickup.

I watched my husband help him—one slow scoop at a time—while John’s curtains stayed perfectly still.

What the fuck? Was that little pile of rocks really bothering John so much? Couldn’t he have just knocked on Kenny’s door and talked to the man who takes out his trash? No—he had to tattle like a preschooler.

Imagine what he thinks of our tractor trailer, outdoor cat houses, and whimsical holiday yard décor. But alas, there’s no ordinance against that. He’ll just have to silently hate.

The fucking he gets for the fucking he gave.

When we first moved here, we were excited. The mountains! The restaurants! The shopping! They still had proper, thriving malls. But we didn’t account for the fact that all these lovely places would be filled with sniveling, selfish assholes who make you want to curl up tighter and deeper into your home alone.

Recently, I thought I hated humanity. But that’s not quite true. I just hate these people. And I hate this stupid place.

When we move, I might miss Newton. He looks awful cute sitting on the porch, proud he can jump Kenny’s new, taller fence.