The Tree
K.A. Polzin
The doorbell rings. I can see through the glass in the door that it’s my fat, sad sack neighbor, the one whose name I never remember. I open the door.
“Hey,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot in that nervous way he does. “How’re you doing?” He always begins a conversation with some nicety, then starts in with the complaining.
“Doing good,” I say, smiling, because I am polite, and because I still have hope: maybe this time he isn’t here to complain.
But he is. Here to complain. And it’s about the goddamn tree.
“So those tree trimmers are here pruning our trees,” he says, glancing back toward his yard. “If you’re interested in having your tree removed, they said they can do it for fifteen hundred dollars.”
Of course, the tree trimmers probably didn’t volunteer this information. Sad Sack had to ask them for an estimate. I can picture them all standing in his back yard, taking the measure of our tree.
All the neighbors hate our big tree. It’s a Japanese Something tree, related to a Sequoia. It’s maybe forty feet tall. Maybe fifty. We’ve been told it’s one of the tallest in Queens. It drops needles and cones in their yards that they resent having to clean up.
“They said they can do the job today, after they finish pruning.”
My wife Serena owns our home, and therefore the tree. It’s not my tree, I want to tell him. I want to tell them all. But I don’t think it would change anything.
“I’ll tell my wife,” I say. And I will.
But I know she’s not going to cut down that tree.
“Is she here?” Sad Sack asks, shifting slightly to one side to look past me into the foyer, toward where my wife might be.
“She’s working,” I say, in a tone that means I said I’d tell her, so let it go.
“It’s just that when those needles start falling, they clog up our eaves. I mean, it’s bad.”
He makes a face to show how bad it is.
I have heard the complaints before. The old man behind us once yelled over the fence, apropos of nothing, “When are you gonna cut that thing down!” The wife of another neighbor told us a sob story about how hard her husband works sweeping up the needles. Then she asked us to cut it down, too.
Here’s the thing: one, it’s not my tree. And two, trees drop leaves, or in this case needles. That’s life. Are we supposed to not have trees?
I looked it up online once—the law's position on fallen leaves (or needles)—and I learned that my neighbors have no legal recourse. They can cut off tree limbs that reach into their property, but that’s it. The law recognizes that trees drop leaves, and that people need to get over it.
But I like to get along with my neighbors. After all, I have to see them all the time. I figure our sad sack neighbor just wants to be heard.
“I didn’t know they were clogging your eaves,” I say. “Have you told Serena this? Maybe if she knew about it?”
This isn’t true. If she knew about it, my wife still wouldn’t cut down the tree. But I sort of don’t believe him. I think he’s exaggerating the problem. He is a known complainer. Plus, doesn’t everybody have to clean their eaves regularly? That’s why it’s called regular maintenance.
“Yeah—it’s pretty bad. It can ruin your roof if they get backed up, you know.” He says this with resignation, as if the world is much too hard a place to live in.
“Well, I’ll tell her. I don’t think she knows about it.” I smile and begin closing the door. He looks as if he’s about to say more but can’t think of anything. I shut the door as he turns to leave.
I go to my computer and look up “how often clean eaves.” The experts say twice a year, four times if you have coniferous trees, because they drop a lot of needles.
I tell my wife Serena about our sad sack neighbor’s visit, as promised.
“You mean Eeyore?” She’s never used this nickname for him before, but I instantly get it. It seems to explain so much about him. “Yeah—I like that tree. I’m not cutting it down.”
This much I know. But I kept my promise to my neighbor, whatever his name is.
I think problems like these could be avoided if everyone tried to see their neighbor’s point of view. Instead of thinking I have to sweep up all these goddamn leaves (or needles), think How nice that my neighbor gets to enjoy a lovely tree in his yard—isn’t life grand!
Time passes. My older brother retires early and starts calling me regularly, saying he doesn’t know what to do with himself. This is new to me—him asking me for advice. I pretend nothing strange is happening, and I talk to him like I would anyone. I’m surprised to find I am helpful.
He gives me some advice about neighbors: “Tell them you’ll get right on it, whatever it is. Then do what you want.”
After a year, our sad sack neighbor is ringing our doorbell again.
I open the door, and he says “Hey—how’s it going?” He smiles what looks like the smile he imagines happy people smile and shifts from foot to foot nervously.
“Good—how’re you doing?” I say brightly, imagining that he’s here for something pleasant, or for something that matters in life. But he’s not. He’s here about the goddamn tree.
“So I was wondering if you guys decided about the tree. ‘Cause I talked to the tree service again, and they said they can cut down your tree for that same price.”
Shift, shift.
I hadn’t slept well the previous night, so my energy for dealing with things I don’t care about is low. And this situation requires me to pretend that his ongoing complaints are a reasonable course of action. But I wonder Why hasn’t he moved on?
Then suddenly, thanks to Serena, I picture Eeyore. Eeyore inspecting his tail. This makes it hard for me to take my sad sack neighbor’s concerns seriously.
“You know we had that tree pruned,” I offer. That winter, a big limb broke off and snagged in the electrical wires. We thought about the potential lawsuits.
He nods. His nod says he noticed, but he’s not impressed.
“The tree guy said there should be about fifty percent fewer needles now,” I add. I make up this figure—the tree guy said no such thing—but it seems like a reasonable figure based on how much less tree there is.
“Yeah—you should see all the needles I pulled out of my eaves. I filled three garbage bags.” He shakes his head as if remembering all those bags of needles.
Is three bags a lot? I have no idea. We don’t have eaves.
You should know: sometimes I get the urge to do something impulsive, maybe for the fun of it, or maybe just to show other people that they have more options in life than they think. Sort of like a public service.
I get that urge now.
“Listen—I’ll give you five hundred dollars to never mention that tree to me again.” There. I said it. Now to see what happens next.
“What?” Eeyore says, half smiling. He looks different now. I can see there is more to him.
“Five hundred dollars,” I repeat. “You could hire a kid to sweep up the needles every fall for the next twenty years. By then, we’ll probably both be dead. End of problem.”
“But my eaves...”
“Five hundred dollars is my top offer. I think it’s a good one. But you can’t ever mention the tree to me again.”
“Five hundred dollars,” he says, mostly to himself, seemingly trying out the idea to see if he likes it. “I have to talk to my wife.”
“Do you?” I say, conspiratorially. This is not how I usually talk.
He surprises me by smiling.
“Alright, yeah. I appreciate it.”
“Excellent. I’ll get my checkbook.”
I complete the deal with Eeyore—in the memo line of the check I write never mention tree again. I say nothing to Serena.
I look forward to seeing him on the streets now that he is contractually forbidden from ever mentioning the goddamn tree to me again.
Another year passes. Things happen. My brother experiences a prolonged depression and, during his regular calls, asks me how he should spend his life, and also, what’s the point? I suggest hobbies. The idea is trite, but as I say it, I realize it’s what works for me. Movies. Books. Travel.
He listens to the latest about the tree, then says “Five hundred dollars.”
Then: “Let me know how that works out.”
We neglect to prune the tree, and it attains its largest volume ever. I brace myself for the comments from neighbors—though not from one particular neighbor!
So I am surprised and a little peeved one day when the doorbell rings and through the window in the door I see our sad sack neighbor, peering in, shifting from foot to foot.
“Hey—how’s it going?” he says when I open the door.
“Fine,” I say, my voice rising in a question, because I know this should not be about the tree, but—fuck!—it feels like it is.
“So, I know I said I wouldn’t mention your tree ever again”—he’s got a little bit of a sly grin, as if our agreement is a kind of joke—“but you’ve got a big branch that looks cracked and like it’s about to fall into our yard.”
He looks at me as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
“You broke our agreement,” I say, flatly.
Pause.
“Well, but, this isn’t about the needles,” he says.
“You agreed never to mention the tree to me again.”
“I know,” he says, as if the agreement is just an annoyance. “But this is different.”
“No—it’s about the tree.” I understand the distinction he’s trying to make, but we have a contract. One that he broke. “You owe me five hundred dollars.”
The rightness of my position is immediately apparent to me. I feel strangely calm.
“What?” he says.
But how can he not see that this is true?
Sad Sack: “I’m not paying you five hundred dollars.”
“No, you’re returning my five hundred dollars. You didn’t fulfill your end of the contract. You mentioned the tree to me.”
“But the branch...”
“Yes, thanks for bringing that to our attention. We’ll get right on it. And please don’t forget to return my five hundred dollars.” And I close the door.
I give him six months, but he doesn’t pay back the five hundred dollars. I wonder: how can he not see that he is wrong?
I take him to small claims court. I don’t mention this to Serena, either.
How that works: for cases involving less than three thousand dollars, you don’t need a lawyer. You just file a paper with the court and the court sets a date to hear the case.
I say nothing to my neighbor. I imagine how he reacts when he gets the summons. This brings me pleasure.
By the way, his legal name turns out to be David Refett. I had to provide that to the court. The legal way to do that is through state property tax records. The way I did it was to sneak onto his porch and read the address label on a package UPS left.
The court sets a date for a few weeks later. On the day of, I dress up for court, wanting to take every advantage. When I arrive, David/Eeyore is already there, and sitting next to him is his approximately ten-year old daughter, I’m not sure why. She wasn’t a witness.
Our names are called. We both come up. The judge is referring to something on his iPad as he addresses me.
“Mr. Hoffman, in your complaint you say you paid Mr. Refett five hundred dollars to...to what?”
“To never mention the tree in my yard to me again, your honor.”
“You don’t need to say ‘your honor.’ Okay, so why did you do that?”
“I was sick of him mentioning it. He rings our doorbell. He tells us how our tree drops needles in his yard and how he has to sweep them up. He says they clog his eaves. I got tired of it, so I offered him five hundred dollars to never mention the tree to me again.”
“To never mention the tree again. I see. Why that amount—five hundred dollars?”
“No idea. It just popped into my head. I told him he could use the money to pay a kid to do the sweeping.”
“Okay.” The judge turns ninety degrees. “Mr. Refett?”
“Yes, your honor?”
“You don’t need to say ‘your honor.’ You understand that trees drop leaves—or in this case needles—and that these droppings are classified as a nuisance, but that they are not actionable?”
“I’m sorry, your honor?”
“You can’t make a claim against someone for it. Trees drop leaves. That’s life. And you don’t need to say ‘your honor.’”
“I understand. I’m not making a claim. We—my wife and I—we were hoping he’d have the tree removed. A lot of people...”
“You’re asking him to remove his tree because it drops leaves. Needles. My understanding is you’ve done this multiple times.”
“Well, yes.”
“So, Mr. Hoffman could file a claim against you for harassment. You’re lucky he hasn’t pursued it. Trees drop leaves, Mr Refett.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you?”
David is quiet. His daughter is staring at the floor. It seems like the judge doesn’t like David. I like that I appear to be winning, but I don’t enjoy watching David get lectured by the judge. It’s demeaning. It feels like school. And I understand that it could just have easily been me.
The judge turns to me.
“As to your claim, Mr. Hoffman, for the return of your five hundred dollars, I’m afraid I have to dismiss that.”
David perks up. His daughter lifts her head.
“The terms of your contract aren’t reasonable. Forbidding someone from mentioning something—wouldn’t that be nice? I can think of a few people I wish would agree to that. But it’s not reasonable or enforceable. Now Mr. Refett...” he says, turning again, “It would be neighborly of you to return the money, since I’m nullifying the contract, but I can’t make you.”
“Yes, your honor.”
The judge looks as if he’s going to say something, but sighs instead. “Case dismissed,” he says. Then he taps something on the screen of his iPad.
We both turn to leave. I look over at my sad sack neighbor, thinking maybe we’ll give each other a look that says something like now that that’s all over with, I hope we can go back to the way things were before, but he just stares at me. His daughter stares, too.
More time passes. My brother discovers the Pacific Crest Trail and makes it his hobby. He hikes it from beginning to end, takes the winter off, and starts hiking it again. He must be happy because he stops calling me.
We get a new president, one that makes me question my enthusiasm for impulsive acts. I begin to wonder if maybe there’s a better way to handle these things. But what is it?
David does not return my five hundred dollars, although he never mentions the tree to me again. In fact, he stops speaking to me altogether. Serena doesn’t notice.
There’s already an old Italian guy on our block who doesn’t speak to me—he pretends not to see me when we pass. Maybe because Serena is Indian and I am Caucasian. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.
But to have two neighbors ignore me starts to feel intolerable. I begin to speak favorably of Serena’s long-thwarted plan to move to Brooklyn. Maybe with better neighbors we could have a new, better life. Perhaps they wouldn’t be so petty about tree leaves (or needles).
Serena doesn’t perseverate about decisions. After I express interest in the move, she looks at five places the following week and makes an offer on one before I’ve even seen it.
A few months later, we pack up to move. Serena decides to leave all the furniture and most of the household items and buy new things in Brooklyn. She can afford it. I cull through my books and manage to get my belongings down to two dozen boxes. We rent a small van for the eleven-mile drive to our new place. It takes less than an hour to load it.
As I’m bringing out the last of my boxes, I see that Serena has gone missing. Then I spot her. She’s talking to our sad sack neighbor. His wife and daughter are there, too. They’re all smiling energetically, the way people do when they’re part of a big life moment.
Then Serena moves in and hugs the wife, then our sad sack neighbor, David. I turn away and pretend to busy myself with something on the front seat of the car.
After a minute, I glance back over my shoulder for one last look at them all. They’re laughing now, the four of them. And then, the clouds do not part, the sun does not come shining through, but I know: unless I walk over there, shake his hand, and smile at his whole goddamn family, unless I start the thing, it will always be just like this.
So I start walking.
