“The time is always right to do what is right” – Martin Luther King Jr. (1929-1968)
For a guy who considers himself smart, the situation that occurred with Mitchell Mange and Patrice Pavis is cause for reassessment. There were red flags stupidly ignored; I was trying to be neighborly and not judgmental in the face of quizzical and concerning comments and behaviors. But in short order evidence became certain and overwhelming; an avalanche of crazy. I learned my lesson; run when there are warnings. As suggested, I could write a book about what happened. Until then, here’s more about my very disturbed neighbors and their enablers.
A Pair of Odd Birds
There were of course Mange’s gun comments and nutty remarks. What did not make it into the web site narrative were other things of note. When I had them over to my house, coming in through the garage, Mange surveyed all the moving boxes stored there (most containing business inventory) and said: “You have a lot of stuff.” Yes I know, Einstein. I moved from a house over 1,000 square feet larger, and was slowly unpacking by myself; only having been in the house for around 90 days. According to them, their house here was much larger than where they had been living in California (apparently trailer-sized). So they would not face similar constraints. His comment did not add anything; why make a remark like that? I wouldn’t. It fit the theme of Mange’s other obtuse and screwball comments. When they saw my artwork, Pavis blurted: “Will you give me art lessons?” Not my job, lady. I suggested she find a tutorial on YouTube. If it were me, I’d ask differently; if I’d ever considered giving art lessons; something less direct and anxious. I suggest instead she seek ‘how not to be crazy’ lessons. Looking back, and considering her subsequent negative comments about her husband, that may have been her way to try to get me into a room alone with her. As they looked at my framed photography, I honestly said that compared to drawing and painting, taking a photo was relatively easy; point and shoot. Mange’s response was to say “I’m a photographer too. Thanks for knocking the one hobby that I really enjoy.” Sorry boss, but lighten-up. There were so many deal-breakers that I ignored. My thumbnail assessment of this duo: uptight, immature, reactionary, and insecure.
Why Didn’t I Run?
When Pavis wandered over to my house that time and shared her revealing critique of her husband, I should have run but instead agreed to her dinner invitation. When well over a week passed with no word on dinner, I asked when I saw them both in the yard one day. Pavis admitted that she had balked because – as she said – she “…wasn’t a very good cook.” Well why invite someone to dinner then? What the hell was that? I told her not to worry. Now I think that dinner planning made her anxious because she was trying to impress me. During that late April dinner at their house, Mange monopolized conversation going on about Tibet, and his professional career. Pavis mostly just sat there other than making momentary small-talk like her Buddha statue observation. As Pavis prepared the meal (I offered as a good guest should to assist but she declined), Mange and I sat on their patio and talked. Both pointed-out bird feeders in their yard. Back to the dinner; I sensed that Pavis was still insecure about the meal she had prepared; she hovered as if awaiting my assessment. To put her at ease, I said: “You know what this meal needs? Absolutely nothing; it’s perfect.” That seemed to work.
Mulch Brains
By June, all of their yards were covered with pine wood chips. Day of their first delivery, Mange excitedly announced that they were getting “…a load of mulch.” I was working in my yard that day so went over to take a closer look at the covered load in the pick-up truck backed-up to nearly the property line. I said hi to Mange and Pavis, and asked if I could inspect the ‘mulch.’ Pulling aside the tarp, I saw wood chips. “Oh, wood chips” I said. I wondered how they thought that was mulch. By common definition, mulch is composted/decayed organic matter with nutritive value, not inert wood chips the equivalent of gravel. To my dismay, they proceeded to have their hired help cover all their yards – front, back and both sides – with truckload after truckload of the stuff. Contrary to Pavis’ testimony of how afraid she was and avoided me, when they were both standing there day of their wood chip delivery, I was just feet away from them and the delivery truck while speaking briefly with Mange; Pavis was relaxed and cordial; there was no indication of a problem. She surely didn’t duck and run. Her crazy fictions of stalking and the like were of course selectively fabricated later.
There Must Be Something in the Water
My accusers hired an attorney out of Durango. Let’s call her Ms. Small. She tried so hard to pin horns and a tail on me. But she relied on her nitwit client’s fantasy allegations. In initial testimony to the court, my neighbors didn’t even get the month right of our dinner at their house. Once my accurate timeline was submitted as evidence, they adopted the date I provided. I have kept a yearly day-runner for decades and jot down just a line or two of what I did that day. Ms. Small probably recognized that the bulk of her client’s claims were evaporating. Perhaps that made her desperate. When quizzing me in court, I indicated that I knew a date of something or other because I kept a record. In an alarmed voice she said: “Now you’re journaling them!” Um, no I’m not. Jesus, there has to be something in the water.
I found Ms. Small’s examination increasingly shrill, desperate and abusive. When I mentioned that delay of their dinner invite suggested they were flakes, she pounced – but to what end I have no idea; I’m entitled to an opinion. She pounced again when I said I’d deleted contact information for my neighbors from my phone and blocked them. She asked why, and didn’t I want to hear from them. For what possible reason? Not even if it entitled me to an honorary degree in psychiatry. No thank you! When I disputed my accuser’s testimony that I was repeatedly voicing concern about jealous husband vengeance, and pointed-out yet again that I had in-fact made the joke in context only once in conversation about health (see the chapter, My Accusers for details) she took that up in her cross (read: twisted) examination. Their attorney pointed-out that I in-fact made a ‘jealous husband’ comment more than once – twice to be exact – once in a conversation with the addled Mange as I had maintained all along, and then again when I cited the context of the joke in my written statement to the sheriff (to illustrate his gun response) – as if those two instances were even similar or could prove my consistent account suspect or add credibility to her client’s assertions. It was just another example of an attorney desperate for a win at any cost; at the cost of dignity and truth.
Twilight Zone
One must wonder what possessed my neighbors to not only concoct strange fictions about me but then engage an attorney to try to enforce their fantasy narrative. That alone suggests they are crazy. More blunt here, I wonder how they managed to wriggle out of their straightjackets, go off their meds and escape a psych ward in California. Surely there must be an unbecoming history; I can’t be the first person in their crazy-talk crosshairs. Maybe they were the ones run out of town. What would a forensic psychiatrist make of Pavis’ rambling testimony especially, and a senile dementia specialist of Mange’s strange talk? Perhaps those tests will come.
That they failed in court must bother them. I even told their attorney my fear that they could go vigilante. I worry daily what they might do next for they are obviously not constrained or controlled by sanity. Nearly as worrisome is that the county has an idiot judge waving his magic wand making faulty pronouncements. You already know his name. Someday I just might reveal name, rank and serial number of my accusers. It all depends.
Hardly Thinking
Yes, this is about Judge Fay and how on earth he even approved the flimsy TPO’s (temporary protection orders). I suppose that the whole TPO process is seen as urgent at the expense of intelligent review. That sounds about right for mindless bureaucracy. There should be no wonder why our government screws things up as often as it does. If I were a judge, I’d analyze, ask questions, and ignore all the stray stuff – and maybe even tell the petitioners to come back when their request contained only actionable items. At risk of repetition, what of my accuser’s narrative should have actually been grounds for their TPO’s?
- Suspected harm to wildlife? No – that concern should be directed to law enforcement or fish and game.
- “Jealous husband” fear and the rest of their phony character assassination claims? No – just stop seeing your neighbor.
- Holes in the ground. Are you kidding? No. Such fluff.
- Criticism of a landscape? No. How would that possibly qualify?
- “Hates his ex-wife” and a bunch more filler garbage that has nothing to do with them? No.
- “Afraid” of me? No. Self-induced agitation and groundless fear concerns are better directed to a psychiatrist.
- Stalking – OK, sure. But when soundly disproven, the judge should have but did not admonish my accusers for that and a lot more of their fantastical fiction.