I still don’t know if he ever fired a shot.
That’s the funny thing about small-town stories. By the time they’re finished making their rounds, everyone remembers something different. Someone heard shots. Someone else swore the police found an arsenal in his house. Another person claimed he tried to lure a kid inside.
But the truth is, none of us really knew.
All I knew for certain was the way he used to greet us.
The Southend projects sat just a few blocks from downtown, close enough that you could still hear traffic off Fourth Street and smell the bakery some mornings. Kids cut through the sidewalks on their way to the chippy, and old houses leaned into each other along Fifth like they’d been standing there too long.
And almost every time we passed his place, we heard it.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
He’d draw it out in a soft voice that never quite sounded friendly, even though it was clearly meant that way. My friend and I would hear it whenever we passed his place. This was down in the Southend projects, down Fifth Street from downtown. The old man lived on the left side of the street, about half a block before my friend’s place on the right. He was one of the few white tenants in the projects back then, which made him stand out even before he opened his mouth. Short guy, beer belly, longish gray hair tucked under a soft cap. Always around, but never really around, if you know what I mean.
He never talked to anyone that I saw. Never sat outside with the other old guys. Never socialized. We'd just see him near his house or walking up the street.
Always that same greeting.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
Back then, people thought about race in blunt, simple ways. Sometimes ugly. Sometimes practical.
He was one of the few white tenants in the projects. My friend was too. I was little more than a tourist.
Maybe that was enough for him.
Maybe he thought we were his people.
Maybe he thought that made us neighbors.
Then one afternoon the police came.
My friend and I were headed to his house, and as we entered the projects, we saw the lights. Cops, and lots of them. This wasn't exactly unusual. For all we knew, there'd been a drug bust or a domestic situation had gotten out of hand. Could've been gang related too. Either way, it was just part of life.
As we got closer, we saw it wasn't just the city cops. There was a SWAT vehicle too. This was bad. Then we noticed where they were.
In front of the weird old guy's house.
Any time I'd walk to my friend's house, I'd see him. Creepy little old dude. But he always tried to be friendly.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.” He'd say with his dead eyes and half smile. He didn't seem drunk or high...just...well, off. Maybe he was a little slow. I'd asked my friend about him. He figured he was an old perv - but my friend seemed to think everyone was a perv. His mom said the old guy was crazy. She never had much more to say about him. She was happier with her old Leon Russell records and her Lark cigarettes than talking gossip.
Almost any time my friend and I left his neighborhood, we'd see him.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
It didn't matter if we were heading downtown to one of the music stores, or over to 4th to the chippy, we'd run into him.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
I swear, the old guy had one outfit. Navy blue windbreaker (no matter the weather), old pair of gray pants, tennis shoes and a soft cap, like something a cabbie would wear. He was, maybe, in his 60s. Maybe older. It was hard to tell. But he was, if nothing else, consistent.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
I figured he was harmless. Probably just old and lonely and felt out of place. He never tried to engage us in conversation beyond his greeting. Never asked how we were, what we were up to. Just that same greeting...like it was all he had to say.
He was probably around my step-granddad's age. Maybe he'd been in the war, the big one. My step-granddad had been stationed in England during the war. He said a lot of the guys came back...different. No one ever talked about it. They all saw and had to do things they never wanted to speak of again...so maybe that was this old guy's story. I just don't know.
There was a big crowd of people in front of the old guy's house, along with the cops, SWAT vehicle, and news reporters. We joined the crowd, as ya do. I overheard different people suggesting different reasons for the commotion.
"He tried to get my kid!"
"He was shooting out his upstairs window!"
"Old white guy's crazy!"
From the sounds coming from the crowd, none of them seemed to really know him either. I never heard anyone mention him by name. Never 'Mr. So & So', always just "that old white guy" or "that crazy old white motherfucker". It was pretty clear that he wasn't exactly popular with the neighbors.
A couple of cops tried to keep the crowd off the little patch of grass near the door, so the police could do their job. Another cop was trying to keep people out of the street so cars could get past, and presumably to keep people safe.
There were uniformed officers and plain-clothes cops, some going in and out of the old guy's place. I saw some of the SWAT guys coming from behind the building. Then we saw the front door open.
The crowd hushed.
2 cops in front, leading him out. 2 behind him. The old guy was in chains. Same outfit he always wore. Blue windbreaker, gray pants, and his cap. News cameras flashed as the police led him to their vehicle. The crowd started getting loud again. Everyone suddenly had a story. The little old guy was just looking down and forward as they led him away.
Then he looked up. He saw my friend and me...and he tried to stop. The 4 cops tried to keep him moving, but he seemed insistent on stopping. He just stared right at us. I swear, the world went silent. I couldn't hear the crowd, or the cops, or anything else.
Staring straight at us, the old man spoke...
“Hiiiiiiiiiiii neighbor.”
I still don’t know if he ever fired a shot.
(© 2026 Michael C. Metzger)
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