Update and Explanation on the Saga of the Drama with the Excitement on Gregson Street

Whew. Okay. So.
We moved to this neighborhood when the Girl was 2. Mostly because she was getting to the age of wanting to make friends and we lived in Crack Central and I didn't really want her having playdates at the meth house. We didn't have a lot of money, but we managed to get a sweet teensy cottage bungalow in an old neighborhood on the east side not far from the city. It's a neighborhood that was mostly planted during and after WWII, and many of the houses still contain widows and widowers who have lived here since they bought their first house as newlyweds just after the Big War or their children who grew up loving this neighborhood. Neat yards, trimmed bushes, picket fences, a few odd additions. But lovely. And quiet. And no hookers walking past the house. Nor crying toddlers wandering through whose moms have passed out at noon. It's a small-yet-nice-house neighborhood full of people who love it here.

You know how there's always the ONE house? That one with crap all over the yard, needs paint and new awnings, weedy used-to-be-flowerbeds, either a rental or an inheritance? Yeah, we have one of those. His name is Gary. Bonus that he's a creepy fifty-something year old single man who has Hoarding Disorder. And likes little boys a little too much. He lives across the street from me. (Sort of. If you need a visual to enjoy this story, I live on the corner of a "T". My house is at the top of the up-down part of the T. Gary's hovel is across the street, on what would be the cross bar of the T. Clear? All righty then).
There have always been rumors about Gary. Even someone who doesn't cotton to rumors has to admit that there are just too many stories about Gary to ignore the feeling that we should all keep our kids away from his lawn. And maybe our dogs too.
Gary "rescues" young men with criminal pasts from homeless shelters and jail. He brings them to his house and gives them a place to stay (assuming they can clear a spot amid the piles of stuff in his house, that is). That's all I know for sure. I sure wouldn't want to be accused of slander by writing that we're all pretty positive that he buys them drugs in exchange for sex. Nope. But I have seen him and his creepy friends standing around the front yard and then one or more young men scurry from his house to the bus stop. But I'm sure it was all...innocent. And helpful. And Morally Upstanding. I'm sure his medal from the mayor is in the mail. Is there a sarcasm font yet?
Somehow, he has managed to get away with it. The cops know about him. He has a rap sheet, but doesn't appear on the sex offender list. We've had the U.S. Marshall on our doorstep showing us 'Wanted' posters and asking if we've "seen this man" at Gary's house. It's always a picture of a defiant young man, dark skinned, thin. But Gary is smart in that disgusting slimy way; he knows the line between legal and illegal and he skates it well. He knows the technicalities and he exploits them whenever attention is called to him. (When I confronted him Friday after the whole Saga of Drama with the Excitement, his only response was to make sure I knew that the boy in question is 23 years old. That was all). So we all live with Gary and his drug addicted boy-toys. And hate him. I feel sorry for the boys, but only to a point. They still make their own choices and choose to be there.

I'm a housewife. I'm not going to deny that there could be a chance that my inherent nosiness and writer's imagination may have...exaggerated...what I think is going on over there. I also won't deny that I've looked into how much trouble I would get into if I planted a sign on his front yard that reads: "Warning: Pedophile on Premises." The one time Gary saunter/shuffled over and tried to make friends with me over my fence, I made sure that Phoebe the Great Dane kept barking at him and let him know that she hates people (a lie; she's a marshmallow). I wouldn't let him in the yard. I've told my daughter and her friends to never, EVER talk to him or anyone at his house. EVER. I've let everyone who moves onto the streets of the T know who the Creepy Guy is. Sometimes I felt bad; was I rumor-mongering? Spreading nasty stories for shits-and-giggles because I am, after all, a bored housewife? Hmmmmmm.....

Sorry, gotta go have dinner with that wonderful man I live with. He smoked stuff all day on a grill-thingy for me. I opened a bottle of good wine. Will continue Part deux tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever.