Mr. McPee

Mr. McPee is what we call the transient man who makes his rounds in our neighborhood, stopping outside our house at about 4:30pm each day.  He naps with his head on the flattened part of a palm tree trunk right out front.  I don't need to see him to know he is there.  I can smell him.  EVEN WHEN I AM UPSTAIRS.  I'll bet you can guess what he smells like.  Mr. McPee takes care of himself.  He does pee in his pants, as we have witnessed, but I believe he does this as a form of self-defense.  I'm not being facetious.  In spite of Mr. McPee's rants ("All dead all dead all dead all dead all dead ASSHOLE DICK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! or I'VE BEEN TRYING AND TRYING AND TRYING AND TRYING MY WHOLE GODDAM LIFE!  WHEN ARE YOU GONNA TRY!?), he does have moments of clarity and, should you attempt to engage with him in some way, he responds like a "normative" person.  Once, when he was passing by the sideyard, I made eye contact with him and said, "Hello."  He tipped his baseball cap at me and said, "Well, hello there!" All charming like he was a fine young buck and I was a lass on the boardwalk.  And the other day, I was out trimming the morning glory.  We had just mowed the lawn.  Mr. McPee came by.  He stopped on the sidewalk and looked around at the yard, then tipped his cap at me, and said, "Oh, hey, that's nice.  Yeah, real nice.  The yard's lookin' real nice!"  Like we were neighbors and I was gearing up for our next BBQ.  Mr. McPee smells real bad, but in Los Angeles, he could be the best neighbor I've ever had.