My neighbor across the courtyard has a funky mattress. It's not so fragrant that anyone can smell it, but we call all most definitely see it, and it's annoying. It's just sitting there, or rather standing there, leaning up against the red brick wall. Sort of like James Dean in that still shot from Giant. Except it's not James Dean, it's a fucking nasty, wet, semen and piss stained mattress. Perhaps I could put a cowboy hat on it.
Rich people call such things "eyesores." Normally I care not about this sort of problem. If you want to store an old television set next to your stoop, or let your kids write things on the sidewalk in chalk like, "The guy at 104 has man BOOOOOOOBS," who am I to stop you. Living in a free society requires tolerance of your neighbor's ugly yard, ugly kids, ugly politics, second hand trampoline or overly-enthusiastic patriotic comment via a humongous, sheet-sized American flag. And I am tolerant. I understand that life is messy, and that parents don't have the time to pick up all the toys outside. Living in close quarters with others requires understanding.
That said, the fucking mattress has got to go.
Your eye moves from the new buds on the maple tree to the blue jay resting and peeping on one of the branches. From there, your eye picks up the red brick, the green copper on the connected townhouse roof, and then perhaps to one of the better looking residents. Not that guy, not her, either...yeah, her. The green grass is poking through the dark soil and daffodils threaten to bloom soon. But like a fart in a bakery, the visual stench of that fucking mattress ruins an otherwise pleasant experience. It has to go, and I'm going to show it the door.
We move after dark. I shall drag it to the apartment building nearby where there is a dumpster. I shall keep you, dear readers, posted.