Poltergeist Lived in the Basement

When I was growing up our neighbor on Maple St. had a pet raccoon. He lived in the basement. The raccoon, not the neighbor. You can imagine how pissed I was to discover that our basement did not also come with a raccoon. I begged. I pleaded. Instead of a raccoon I received lectures about the dangers of wild animals and how they belong in nature and that they probably have rabies and/or lice and while they may LOOK cute, they actually want to kill you and eat your face. I'm paraphrasing.

During summer evenings the neighbor would sit on his front porch, drinking beer out of a can while his raccoon scampered around the porch and into the front yard. Poltergeist, the raccoon, would pick up sticks and walnuts from the yard with his prehensile raccoon hands and redistribute the items in what seemed to be a thoughtful manner. I don't remember the raccoon's name, it was probably Bandit, but if I had a pet raccoon I'd name him Poltergeist, because that is a far better name for a pet raccoon that lives in the basement.

On those summer evenings when Poltergeist was redistributing yard waste in what was probably an alphabetical manner, I'd sneak over and sit on the grass cross legged and wait for him to wander over and smell me, sometimes placing his little black raccoon paw on my arm. The neighbor man had seen me creep over, winked at me and then pretended to look the other way. He tolerated me petting his bristly head (again, the raccoon, not the neighbor) and stared at me with implacable eyes. In retrospect, he was probably trying to figure out how best to dismember me so I'd be more easily alphabetized.

I only got to visit Poltergeist a few times in stolen moments when I wasn't being closely watched, which was very irresponsible parenting because it was the 80's and according to all adults everywhere, kids were being stolen left and right, probably by single men living alone who kept pet raccoons in their basement.

It's a miracle I ever survived to adulthood.