This summer while walking the dogs, a neighbor down the block came out of her house to ask about Casper’s breed. She then went on and on in one of those inextricable conversations that covered everything from her dogs (there’s quite an assortment of them, but they seem well-behaved and well cared for) to her sister who grooms dogs to her art studio in the basement to her boyfriend RJ, their relationship self-described as “on and off.” We also heard all about the time she went to Wishard (local hospital generally known for taking in all the riffraff and uninsured cases) and they thought she was nuts and put her in the mental ward and about the police screwing her in some investigation and a bunch of other stuff that you normally might only share with your best friend, not neighbors you met for the first time. She also had the most enormous, un-contained breasts imaginable, and while this isn’t a feature that normally draws my attention, the bralessness made it unavoidable.
So we pretty much call her Crazy Big Boob Susan, which isn’t the nicest thing ever, but I’m probably known as the Crazy Rabbit Girl so maybe it’s even. Living on small lots in the older part of the city has been pretty entertaining.
A few times we’ve gone by Susan’s house and seen painted signs of rants about something RJ’s done. She’ll put her grievances in art and prop them up in the driveway or on a vehicle. A few days ago there were police cars in the vicinity, and yesterday we found a new batch of signs, these just hand-written, taped to the exterior of a car. Today the signs have been moved inside the car but are still there. The one in the windshield is something about RJ Stole My Phone and Took My Money, and you can peruse the others here.
Some of the fine print includes “Hero, In Jail,” a heart with “Steve Fred Love RJ,” and “Not Bipolar / Not Suicidal / Just Hate Men.” It’s all very bizarre. Since the police are already involved I’m not worried that I should be calling someone about her immediate safety, but I’m not sure what the signs are supposed to do.
I guess we’ll have to ask the nosy neighbor across the street for the scoop.