He wanted my garbage. I knew that right away. And who wouldn’t want it? There was some ground beef in it, and old spaghetti sauce, banana peels and egg yolks. It was a young possums dream. Jackpot.
But my dog had to piss something terrible, and I knew it meant trouble. Marge wanted to practice a little softshoe on the ol’ possums’ back, I could see the fire in her eyes. She wanted out the back door and into the fray.
But she’s naive. She doesn’t know from possums. Or where they’ve been. They’re seedy folks, the underbelly of society, with inky eyes and tails like albino snakes. They don’t fool around.
I stared at him, and he stared at me, reluctantly backing down from the garbage bag and giving me the ol’ high eyebrow as we began our standoff.
“Get out if you know what’s good for ya.” I said thinly, indicating that I had a Beagle/Ridgeback mix with me, and she wasn’t in the mood to chew gum, if you follow me.
The possum scoffed. “I know what’s good for me. This can of Progresso Chicken Soup. So step off, angel.”
So I banged on the window of my back door and pointed at him with one finger, my best, longest finger.
“Hit the road, coach. I’ll scream my head off if you don’t leave my deck.”
“Go on and scream. We’re in Chicago,” he said, backing up just a tad. “No one will hear you.”
Marge the pup swore at him like I’ve never heard a small dog swear. She wanted action, and she wanted it now.
I opened the door a crack and stomped my foot. The possum stepped down a few stairs and rested on the landing, looking at me over his shoulder.
“Your all talk, dollface. But ya got nice pins. You should show 'em off more often.”
My dog didn’t care for the empty flattery and lunged forward.
“Get out. Your compliments aren’t working.”
“Aren’t they?” He said, lighting a cigarette. “Maybe I’ll just hang out on your back porch all night and throw your garbage around.”
“I’ll call the building manager.”
“Sure you will. Why don’t you take your dog out the front steps then? Sure, it’s breakin the rules, but I’m dangerous, right? A squirrely guy like me? Might have a disease, might hurt your precious dog.”
So I did. We did our business out on the street and checked around the back of the building to see if the possum had left.
He hadn’t. He was watching me, from the deck, his little white head poking out from the railing. “I got your number baby,” he said. “Don’t try to use these stairs again.”