25 freaks you never knew in Philly

Over in a southwesterly Philadelphia neighborhood there lived various and vigorous lunatics.

First there was me. Just another alone and palely loiterer. Occasionally I could be found sleeping in the backyard (not recommended in this neighborhood) or playing with the mangy mutts who prowled the block.

Next door was a Vietnam vet, loud, frequently drunk, frequently yelling at his kids. He liked to collect animals then lock them up in the backyard never to be seen again. His house was slowly blighting from a proactive neglect. He had his moments of drunken frivolity with his buddies. They would come over on the weekends and jam with guitars to R&B.

In the apartment next to him lived a huge man, tall and wide. Something was amiss in his head. He reminded me of the protagonist in The Confederacy of Dunces. He wore the same blue garage pants, flannel shirt, army surplus hat and old backpack every day. I would see him about 2 pm amble out of his apartment. Shambling his way to a meandering walk to god knows where. On Sundays his mom would take him out and he would try and crunch into her tiny car. A giant wedged into a Geo.

Behind us was another Vietnam vet and his beautiful but unstable wife (plus three dogs known to be vicious.) She would go get drunk and he would have to roam the bars looking for the one to drag her out of. He had a big heart, but Vietnam I think put in him a cynical bent (as it did to too many others.) Scavenging was his passion. He collected anything and stored it in and around his carriage house. A sample of the items to be found: a moldering jeep, thirty antique windows, oddly shaped granite, weather wizened statuary, iron gas lamps and hundreds of moldy bricks. He begged, borrowed and stole obsessively. He always said he was going to start selling his stuff for 'a nice chunk of change' but he never did.

Across the street lived an old nutter who liked to stare out his window. Fluorescent light overhead. He was the neighborhood watchdog. Kept an eye on cars and houses. He grew up in this house, once full. Now it was a dilapidated haunted three story in which prowled a solitary loner. I was always a little intimidated by him; he kept numerous guns in the house. He ended up shooting himself with one of them when his social security claim was denied. His mother would visit on Sundays. He would have to come down and parallel park the car for her.

Down a couple houses from him lived a Rumanian lady. She took in renters. Occasionally she would lock her tenants out, sit in her attic, look down at everybody and curse. In the dark hallways were hung yellowing magazine tourist pictures of Rumania. I was a friend with one of her renters and every time I visited I was infused with the smell of the place. It was the scent of five thousand miles and one hundred years ago; all musty and sweet. Once I stayed overnight and my friend left for work. I could not get out of the front door because it was locked from the inside. So I had to go back up to my friend's apartment, climb out a window and leave via the roof. I could not see the Rumanian lady, but I could hear her from the attic laughing at me.

Stay tuned for next week: the insect lover, the domestic abuse couple, the strange old man slumped on his moldering Audi...