Last week, one of my coworkers asked if I wanted to go peach-picking; I declined. Despite my anti-social demeanor, and the fact that I don’t do well with coworkers outside of the office bubble, I would have accepted her offer, but I already had PEACH-PICKIN’ PLANS.
You see, my neighbor has a peach tree that conveniently overhangs into my backyard.
I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING BUT BEFORE YOU GET ALL JUDGE-Y HEAR ME OUT.
I didn’t steal any of my neighbor’s peaches last year, even though THEY WERE RIGHT THERE. I bought my peaches at the store like a good person. All summer the peaches sat unpicked, until they fell to their soggy deaths. Wasteful, I know, but I didn’t want to be that neighbor.
Besides, I’m pretty sure they know I complain about their dog barking ALL.THE.TIME so I didn’t want to give them any more reason to dislike me. I mean, they’ve never said anything that suggests they know, but I’m pretty sure they’re the neighbors I hear over my kid’s baby monitor (they’re big fans of reggae music), which leads me to believe that sometimes they also hear me.
And I complain about that dog barking a lot.
Maybe they should bring the dog inside the house once in a while. Give my ears a break.
Last week I noticed the peaches were close to being ripe, so I rubbed my hands together and cackled as I stared out the sliding glass door. There were probably 250 peaches on the tree, so I figured a dozen for a pie wouldn’t be too bad, because they weren’t going to eat them anyway, right?
UGH STOP WITH THE JUDGING. I HEAR IT.
Yesterday morning, I woke up and decided, “Today I will pick a few peaches.”
And that motherfucker Karma read my thoughts and stood in front of my sliding glass door, cackling, while I stared out over my neighbor’s empty backyard.
I could see their bedroom window. They cut down the peach tree.
I had heard the chainsaw and lawn mower, but I had no idea the aftermath would be so devastating.
I felt like the officer in Titanic, scouring the backyard for any sign of survivors. A tiny, unripened peach sat bruised in my weed-filled garden. I waited too long. Nevertheless, I put the battered fruit in my basket.
“Hellooooo?” I sobbed, peaking over the brick wall that divides our yards. “Is anyone alive out there?”
No response. Even their dog sat quiet as I longingly gazed upon the stump that once housed my pie-filling.
Then I went back inside and ate candy for breakfast, because that’s what Liz Lemon would do.
There’s a lesson among all this peach-nabbing chaos: If you are going to steal fruit from your neighbor, don’t worry about their barking dog; steal the fruit the first chance you get. Otherwise, they’ll just chop down the tree, and then no one gets any pie.