When I was around nine years old, I moved to a new, more upper class neighborhood. My parents aren’t so used to dealing with snooty, non-confrontational people. So when garbage night came, my dad put the garbage where we would normally, in front of our property. My neighbor would also put his on the other side of our lawn. It wasn’t a big deal. On the way out to dinner one other night, my dad politely asked my neighbor to move the garbage to his property just because we were having company. My neighbor was also having company. He passionately refused. This meant war. I didn’t know it then. I moved into quite a cliche town. These people were the football coaches, the restaurant owners, and the high school teachers I have yet to know. My family and I returned to dinner with my neighbor and his friends sitting on his porch. The garbage was not touched. My father then grabbed his garbage, sliced it open and threw it onto his front lawn. Immediately, all those football coaches who seemed so tough were jumping into their cars or into the house. I guess in this case, I would be the crazy neighbor. My dad should be taking credit but I’m in college now and everyone from my high school knows the story but I haven’t told anyone about it. My neighbors are apparently better at talking about how bad ass my dad is than I am. But let the lesson be this. Don’t mess around with garbage. It becomes messy stuff.