Chapter Twenty-One: The Kuhar Incident​​​

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     Many housing developments have neighborhood watch programs. The vast majority are only semi-serious affairs designed to fool prospective thieves into thinking someone might really be paying attention. Often started with great fanfare, the enthusiasm behind most such programs typically faded once residents returned to more parochial concerns.

 

     Once that occurs, the only reminder of the neighborhood constabulary will be the warning signs posted on a handful of lawns. Soon even those signs will fall, victims of wayward lawnmowers perfect for chewing up wooden trespassers on otherwise green grass.

 

     If many neighborhood watch programs fell due to indifference, it was the ever-growing presence of self-installed security cameras that truly brought the concept to its knees. Services such as Amazon’s Ring made the idea of a human watch seem almost quaint, a horse and buggy relic from some ancient bygone era.

 

     All these factors contributed to the death of the human-based surveillance state in ninety-nine percent of housing developments across the country. There were, of course, exceptions. I know that to be true because I resided in one of them – I lived in Southwest Shores.

 

     The name itself should have clued me in. As anyone in Greater Cleveland knows, the only shore near the city was off Lake Erie, an undeniably beautiful location but well north of any point within the city proper. To find a major shore and body of water south of Cleveland, you have to look down to Florida, something of a reach from a state as far north as Ohio.

 

     I once asked my neighbor Mike about the name. Normally succinct in his replies, Mike grew strangely evasive.

“Now that you mention it, I never saw the point in all that north, south, east, west thing. You want me to find something – just tell me what streets to turn down or what landmarks are nearby. Who really pays attention to north and south?”

 

     Bob, Mike’s longtime partner, stood beside him, shaking his head. "Why can’t you admit to Alan you don’t have a clue?  What the hell was the rest of that all about?”

 

     “I was just making an observation. Why do you have to be so literal?”

 

     I never asked anyone else. I was a little afraid to, though it was a relief to realize I wasn’t the only one clueless regarding our neighborhood’s origin. And as I discovered later, that confusion wasn’t limited to the name of our development. Technology was my neighborhood’s real Achilles’ heel.

 

     Shortly after we moved into Southwest Shores, word of my computer-based profession passed seemingly from neighbor to neighbor, like the arrival of a mythical hero sent to rescue the block from some technological wilderness.

 

     I couldn’t exactly fault their misconception. As Alma pointed out soon after, the words “web designer” would usually indicate a person with at least some skill in the surrounding technology.

 

     While I appreciated their faith, I was, at best, a computer idiot savant. I could turn on a computer, design a website, and use most other standard programs with a reasonable degree of proficiency. When it came to the background work, however – establishing a home network, fixing a crashed computer, even setting up my Bluetooth headphones – I was a complete moron. When I worked at the hospital, I relied on our IT department for such concerns; at home I relied on my wife. Part of the reason I wanted kids was to ensure a continuing stream of technological expertise if Alma were ever unavailable.

 

     In the first months after we moved into Southwest Shores, at least ten of my neighbors asked for help with their computers. On the plus side, I was able to assist Gunther, a sharply dressed man in his seventies who couldn’t figure out how to retrieve a file from the cloud or how his information even got up there in the first place. I found Gunther’s file, and he rewarded me with Semla, a rather delicious ethnic pastry.

 

     As far as the other nine requests were concerned, I was somewhat less than useless. Most accepted my ignorance with a fair degree of neighborly grace, though Mrs. Mallor, sure I was hoarding some sort of proprietary knowledge, refuses to speak with me to this day.

 

     With the shortage of technical expertise in our small suburban neighborhood, installing security cameras proved impossible except for those who paid to have it done. That left us with the Southwest Shores Neighborhood Watch, an organization I first learned about from Mike, the Watch’s unofficial leader.

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     I was initially resistant to the Watch, only joining after Alma, just prior to Emily’s birth, also encouraged my participation.

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     “You should sign up. You’ll get to meet more of our neighbors, including those who are mad at you for not helping them with their computers. Besides, this is the Watch - winter is coming.”

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     “Does this mean I remind you of Jon Snow?”  

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     “We’ll go with that. But beyond the unquestionable resemblance, think of joining as a sign of repentance to the neighborhood and added safety for our soon-to-be-born child. And as I carry this bowling bowl in my stomach, think of it as something you owe me, big time.” 

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     I knew better than to argue. While Alma’s bowling ball was a joint decision, I owed her, nonetheless.

 

     I approached Mike, who doled out the watch assignments to anyone he could rope into joining. To Mike, the watch was a calling, the equivalent of the priesthood if priests carried heavy weaponry. While we men of the watch didn’t really carry weapons, Mike strongly wished we could.

 

     Regarding weapons, Steve Gutterman did bring along a large stick on his initial shift. Unfortunately for Steve, the stick was soon stolen by Darby, the Allen’s three-year-old Labrador Retriever. Darby had managed to tunnel under the tall wooden fence surrounding the Allen’s backyard.  Distraught by the loss of his stick, Steve quit the watch soon after.

 

     Based on his dark look as he recounted the story, I was surprised he didn’t request combat pay. Hearing Steve’s story, I decided to brave the well-known hazards of suburbia and go stickless, though I did think to carry a flashlight.

 

     Despite my initial misgivings, I enjoyed my time on the Watch. My security duties provided an opportunity to walk the neighborhood unaccompanied except for Darby, still adept at escaping the Allen’s not-so-secure backyard. After I walked Darby back to his owner’s house for the fifth or sixth time, Bill Allen finally repaired the loose dirt around his fence. After that, I lost my only Watch companion.

 

     I still walked the neighborhood on my Mike-assigned shift every Wednesday evening between eight and nine. For the two years following my induction to the watch, I kept to that schedule with no emergencies requiring my attention.

 

     I should have known it wouldn’t last. Winter, to paraphrase Alma and Game of Thrones, was always coming. My personal solstice arrived via the crisis known as the Kuhar Incident.

 

     Abigail Kuhar was a pleasant woman in her early eighties. Without fail, she was always cordial to Alma, the kids, and me, even without any idea who we actually were. According to Mike, Mrs. Kuhar had been a fixture in Southwest Shores since she and her now-deceased husband moved into our development almost forty years prior.

 

     Rumored to be independently wealthy, Mrs. Kuhar took great pride in decorating her yard for the holidays, frequently adding little tweaks here and there to, as Mrs. Kuhar phrased it, “make her house look fresh.

 

     According to Mike, those tweaks and decorations had grown more eccentric as the years rolled on. One example was Mrs. Kuhar’s blow-up Santa Elvis, the King’s red-clad physique notable for its size and placement, not to mention its first appearance in the month of May. Mrs. Kuhar said Elvis made her feel bright and cheery, a sentiment no one in the neighborhood could truly deny.

 

     It wasn’t until Elvis’s replacement, a statue in the finest Greek tradition, that a real neighborhood crisis arose. I was first alerted to the switch when Alma, Emily, Jack, and I drove home from church one otherwise uneventful Sunday morning. Jack noticed the change first.

 

     “Look at that big thing on Abigail’s grass.”  Mrs. Kuhar had always insisted the kids call her Abigail.

Alma, without really looking, reminded Jack what we had told him previously. “It’s just Santa Elvis, Jack. Mrs. Kuhar likes having him there, even when it isn’t Christmas.

 

     Emily had also turned her head, and that’s when Alma realized something was truly amiss.

 

     “It’s not Elvis anymore, Mommy. It’s a statue, and something’s growing out of its front.”

 

     Still sure it was nothing, Alma finally looked toward Mrs. Kuhar’s front lawn.

 

     My wife rarely yelled, but this was an exception. “Oh my God, Alan, stop the car.” 

 

     I quickly pulled to the curb, and we joined Mike, Bob, and several other neighbors standing in front of Mrs. Kuhar’s otherwise stately home.

 

     The statue was, we were to find out later, a copy of the Kritios Boy, a famous Greek bust of a boy with his lower arms missing who made up for that defect with the addition of a prominent appendage further down on his body.  For reasons no one could quite fathom, the copy Mrs. Kuhar ordered had added to the Kritios Boy’s already conspicuous male member.

 

     While we were standing along the curb, Mrs. Kuhar’s front door opened, and the owner herself appeared clad in a floral housedress. With the ever-growing crowd gaping at her well-hung statue, Mrs. Kuhar came bearing cookies. Somehow that seemed fitting.

 

     “Do you all like my statue?  The review on Amazon said it was famous, eye-catching even. I think it’s kind of cheery. Do you want any cookies?”

 

     Still gaping but not wishing to appear impolite, the group huddled outside her home all took cookies – Jack making sure to grab two. Chowing down on bakery, no one dared address the six-foot-tall sculpture standing next to Mrs. Kuhar. Finishing up my cookie and ignoring my wife’s well-placed elbow, I finally decided to give it a try.

 

     “Mrs. Kuhar, we couldn’t help noticing your statue looked a bit …unusual.”

 

     “You noticed that too?  I’m not sure why the sculptor left off is lower arms like that.”

 

     Finding no help in the crowd, I continued my plunge forward. “I was talking about his male … part. See,” I said, pointing, “Doesn’t it look a little different to you?”

 

     Mrs. Kuhar finally noticed where I was pointing. “Oh, that. I couldn’t help thinking it reminded me of my husband.”

 

     Alma was staring at me, now wondering perhaps if she was missing out on something. With that thought in mind, and knowing my kids were also looking, I thanked Mrs. Kuhar for the cookies and yanked my family away from her front lawn. Retreating to our minivan, I drove the short distance to our driveway and parked, trying to come to grips with the unusually large intruder now residing at Southwest Shores. I looked at Alma, still speechless herself.

 

     “How could,” my wife said finally, “she ever put that thing in her front yard?”

 

     “You heard her – it felt bright and cheery.”

 

     Alma gave me that “don’t go there” look, so it was Emily who got the final question.

 

     “Mommy, how does he go to the bathroom from that thing?”

 

     I couldn’t resist. “Yeah, Mommy, how does that work?”

 

     After another Alma glare, the four of us went inside, hoping to forget the effigy on Mrs. Kuhar’s front lawn. Just as the uproar appeared to be dying down, Mike and Bob came over later that day to start the whole thing up again.

 

     Sensing this would be an “adult” discussion, Alma and I sent the kids upstairs to play. Once I heard what Mike had in mind, I began wishing I had joined them.

 

     I had moved our guests to the living room, remembering my mother’s long-ago advice that discussions of any significance need to take place in that location. As I grew older, I suspected her reasoning had more to do with the dent disfiguring our dining room table, but a tradition is a tradition nonetheless.

 

     “We’ve got to,” Mike started ominously, “do something about that misshapen thing on her lawn.”

 

     No doubt aware of what his partner had in mind, Bob simply stared at our living room floor. Mike continued talking after we sat. “We’ve got to get rid of that thing.”

 

     I wasn’t sure where Mike was headed. “I’m not thrilled with the neighborhood anatomy lesson either, but what are you suggesting we do?”

 

     “I want to knock it off.”

 

     Alma laughed, sure that Mike was joking. I knew better - I was living next to a crazy person. I looked at Bob, still continuing his curious fixation with our living room carpeting.

 

     Mike tried to convince me his plan was sane.

 

     “That thing isn’t standing next to your house; it’s standing next to ours. That being said, can you imagine what happens to your own property’s value if that statue remains on her lawn?  I’m not talking about destroying the whole thing, just that giant penis. I wouldn’t ask, but,” he said, pointing to Bob, “this guy won’t come with me.”

 

     “Bob has been your partner for years now. Doesn’t his refusal tell you something?  I looked at Alma for support, but she remained mute. Given the topic de jour, this was clearly guys’ work.

 

     I knew I would regret asking, but I had to know. “Just how do you plan on the grand detachment?”

 

     “I have a large hammer, and if that doesn’t work, I found a couple of old M80s. If it doesn’t come off with the hammer, we’ll tie those to the statue. The explosion will split it in no time.”

 

     Reading my face, he added, “Look - I know that sounds extreme, but you’re Catholic – think of it as a mission from God.”

 

     We were now well past farce. “Mike – You’re not Jake; I’m not Elmont, and this is very definitely not a mission from God. You want to tie firecrackers to a Greek statue. The M-80s would likely destroy the whole thing, including his manhood. If the police don’t catch us, half the women in this neighborhood might string us up instead.”

 

     “Not the ones with kids. Trust me - people are talking about doing a lot worse to that thing. If anything, think of this as preventative, part of your duties for the Neighborhood Watch.”

 

     “In what neighborhood does the Watch include hammering or blowing things up?  When this idea came to you, what made you think I would be the one to help?”

 

     “Bob and I did help you with your car seat the day Emily was born.”   

 

     “That is true. Even though both seats became a near-permanent addition to our minivan, you guys did help, and I will be eternally grateful. That doesn’t even include the lawn equipment you’ve lent me over the years, and I’m thankful for that as well. That said, none of those things were against the law.”  Knowing how seriously Mike took the Neighborhood Watch, I added a low blow. “Isn’t this what the Watch was supposed to prevent?”

 

     Alma chose that moment to break into the conversation. “Before you blow up the statue’s manhood, how about we compromise. I’ll speak to Mrs. Kuhar, woman-to-woman. If I can’t get her to take the thing down, then Alan will join you with your hammer and M80s.”

 

     I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. “Are you serious?”

 

     She gave me her “trust me and shut up” smile. My wife had a plan, and I needed to let her see it through. Besides, I would be the only one going to jail. I’m sure some of the cons could use a good marketing guy.

 

     Mike seemed mollified by Alma’s self-confidence. For his part, Bob was relieved there was a solution that didn’t involve weekly partner visitations to the Ohio penitentiary. Alma then put the kids to bed, and I got everyone a beer. The temperature in the room lowered considerably, and Alma rejoined me just after Mike and Bob left for home.

 

     “Let’s hear your grand solution to this mess because I am not going to prison for knocking off someone’s penis, even if that someone happens to be a statue.”

 

     “Have some faith. I’ve been thinking about this since we drove away from Mrs. Kuhar’s.”

 

     “She’s a nice little old lady. Are we talking felony or misdemeanor?”

 

     “Nothing of the sort – just trust me.”

 

     The next day, Alma arrived home from work early. After a quick dinner with me and the kids, she walked over to Mrs. Kuhar’s home, returning an hour later with a ceramic dish loaded with what looked like pastry, seemingly the neighborhood gift of choice. Only my wife could speak to someone about a statue and come home with a plate full of dessert.

 

     “How did things go?”

 

     “Pretty good, actually. This is potica. It’s a Slovenian pastry – basically thin dough with a walnut filling.”

 

     “You know I wasn’t talking about the pastry.”

 

     “You mean the statue?” Alma asked innocently. “It’ll be down by the end of this week. You can give Mike and Bob the good news.”

 

     She truly was a genius. “Just how did you manage that?”

 

     “I told her all the guys in the neighborhood were jealous, including you. I also asked if the statue really did remind her of her husband. She admitted she might have exaggerated that part, but she didn’t mean to cause any hurt feelings. She also said she missed Christmas Elvis, so the King will be back in the building before you know it.”

 

     “I might leave that jealousy part out when I talk with Mike and Bob.”

 

     “Tell them what you like; I just wanted to let you know I handled it.”

 

     I called Bob, who breathed an audible sigh of relief before informing his husband our neighborhood problem was no more. Three days later, the statue disappeared. It was replaced not by Christmas Elvis but a new version of the King - an eight-foot-tall blow-up that looked like Elvis in a lumberjack outfit. No one in the neighborhood complained. I think the rest of us missed Elvis as well.

 

     The day the King arose once more, I asked Alma if she knew what Mrs. Kuhar had done with the original Greek statue.

 

     “She said she was having it moved to her bedroom. She’s a little old lady. I figure what happens in her house is her business.”