Din Mother

One time, in fifth grade, I was having a cub scout meeting at my place and this neighbor came over – I think his name was Mr. Hopnagle – and he complained about all the noise we kids were making. (We lived in a crappy apartment with paper-thin walls, a far cry from the crappy apartment with cardboard-thin walls I live in today.) My mom, whom I suspect had been putting up with a pack of screaming Webelos only by way of a bottle of Jim Beam she kept hidden in the toilet tank, tried to dissuade the neighbor from contacting the landlord and having us evicted. Eventually, they both went into the bedroom and put on the soundtrack to Urban Cowboy real loud. After about ten minutes, Mr. Hopnagle came out to the living room and got a couple of Pasbt out of the fridge and some nylon cords we were using to pratice knot tying and he went back inside the bedroom. About five minutes later I heard my mom scream Tom Selleck’s name. Then Mr. Hopnagle left and my mom came out and told all the kids to go home even though we hadn’t worked out all the plans for the upcoming pinewood derby. We got evicted two weeks later, however, not because Hopnagle complained but because my dad was found passed out drunk and naked in the laundry room.

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