Neighbors

Living in my last apartment was like living in a fiction novel. White Power Bill lived two doors down. He sat at the entrance to the parking lot in his power scooter or at his bedroom window with his binoculars watching everyone else all day, every day. The man with long, messy, greasy hair, a scruffy face, and dingy clothes, aimlessly walked the property with haunched shoulders, darkened eyes, and a protruding lower jaw. I never saw where he lived, nor did I want to know. Every now and then I saw the girl who wore the furry winter hat, even when it wasn't winter, loading her violin into her car. Below me lived loud talker, who moved to Lubbock temporarily but could not leave because she met a man, a man who was the brunt of regular yelling matches comprised of very ugly word. A tiny, old, shriveled hoarder who sat in the lobby playing a hand-held electronic poker game because his apartment was so dirty lived on the first floor. Jay, who had a cat for medical reasons, was an avid member of NORML, and might have cooked a little meth in his apartment one Saturday night lived on the second floor caddy corner from our apartment. And who could forget the OCD man who lived right next to the main entrance and sometimes forgot to close his blinds when wearing nothing but his underwear

Then we moved, and we met our new upstairs neighbors. They like to party. They like to party at night, never before 10:30. They like to party on the weekends and during the week. They like loud music when they party. They like to drink with other people when they party. The combination of people, loud music, and alcohol causes objects to fall on their concrete floors frequently, the same concrete that is our ceiling. They also like to smoke non-stop at their parties. This is why they always leave their windows open. This is also why our bathroom often smells like smoke, even though we don't even have friends who smoke.

The first few times we heard our neighbors, we ignored the noise and dismissed it as a one time nuisance. Eventually, we realized the one time nuisance was a non-stop lifestyle. So, late one night, in our pajamas and with messy bedtime hair, Chris and I went upstairs to the third floor to meet our neighbors and kindly inform them that their music was very loud. Upon exiting the stairwell, we were struck by the pounding music and strong smoke smell that filled the third floor hallway like a night club. This is when I realized that our neighbors should already know their music was very loud. I knocked on our neighbor's door anyway. They didn't answer. I waited for the song to end and knocked again. They still didn't answer. I stood to the side of the door as I knocked a third time so they couldn't see me through the peep hole. They finally answered. The neighbor lady quickly assured me she would stop the loud music, although she declined my kind gesture to introduce myself.

The loud music did not stop. It happened on New Years Eve when my in-laws were visiting. It happened on Wednesday nights when there was nothing to celebrate. It happened when we least expected it. It happened too often.

Last month the loud music started again. It was late, around 10:30 in the evening. It was a weeknight and we were getting ready for bed. Chris went upstairs first. Twenty minutes later, the music died down a bit Unfortunately, our neighbors thought we were asking them to turn down the music until 1:00 a.m., at which point they could turn it up even louder. This woke me up instantly, and I was not amused. This time I went up stairs. I noted the club-like atmosphere in the hallway upon exiting the stairwell. I loudly pounded on the neighbor's door without hesitation. I didn't back down when I heard the neighbors grumble before they opened the door.

The neighbor man who opened the door invited me into the smoked filled apartment and explained to me in his heavy italian accent that he works in music, with the likes of Beyonce, and therefore must listen to loud music late at night as part of his work. No, he could not wear headphones and no, he could not work during the day. He accused me of acting like an old lady for sleeping at such an hour on a week night. He explained that he, on the other hand, was 43 and could be my grandfather (perhaps he should stick to music). He told me that the city is dead and that he is trying to wake it up. He accused me of coming upstairs to sue him. He asked me what I wanted him to do multiple times, even though I had already explained that I wanted the loud music to stop. He told me that he loved me multiple times, even though that statement was always followed by asking my name again. He tried to "hug it out," despite my explicit refusal to do so. His wife attempted to intervene at times. I halfway wanted to deal with her because her thoughts were coherent. At the same time, however, she wasn't wearing pants, which made for an awkward conversation. After 20 minutes of talking in circles, I left. It was a pointless conversation with no resolution in sight.

The next day the music stopped after we complained to management in person and with much agitation. I think the neighbors are one complaint away from eviction because they have been extremely quiet for the last couple of weeks. Thank goodness, because I was starting to miss my comparatively calm neighbors at the old apartment.

The newest Sias

Chris and I adopted a dog. We named him Doug.

Sometimes, when I want Doug to do obey my commands right away, I sternly say, "Douglas, come here," or "Douglas, stop." Sometimes I do this when I'm walking him and I wonder if people overhearing me think that Douglas is a funny name for a dog.

Doug's favorite activity is to play fetch with a ball. This game could go on for hours.

One time Doug's ball fell in the river, and Chris was unable to retrieve it. Doug stood on the shore anxiously watching his ball float away. That was a stressful day for Doug, just as stressful as the day he saw ten or twelve little ducklings swimming in the river, darting around just out of his reach. I don't think Doug likes to swim because as much as he barked and whined and ran and reached for the baby ducks, he never came close to falling in the water.

Doug also likes to chase squirrels. After watching him play with soft, squishy toys, I'm almost certain I know what he would do if he caught a squirrel. First, he would grab it by the neck with his mouth. After he had mouthed it around a bit to ensure a firm grip, he would violently shake his head back and forth so fast that the squirrel would die almost instantly. This shaking would be so intense that the squirrel's bushy tail would whip around wildly, hitting doug in the face as he shook the small animal. Then, Doug would playfully throw the squirrel into the air, catch it, and continue shaking it's now limp body. Next, Doug would place the squirrel on the ground, strategically put his two front feet together on the squirrel's body for leverage, and begin pulling on the squirrel's skin with his teeth in an attempt to rip it open. He would pull the squirrel's skin from the exact point where his front feet come together, so as to maximize the tension between his feet pushing down and his teeth pulling away, causing his shoulders to arch sharply over his head and neck. After a few seconds of tugging on the squirrel's skin, Doug would bring the squirrel to me, drop it at my feet, and look at me with his bloody mouth slightly opened and his tail wagging, waiting for me to play fetch. This is why Doug can never catch a squirrel. Or a cat. Or a duckling.

I like to think that Doug knows we rescued him from the city pound where they "destroy" the animals that go unadopted. I'm sure that makes him thankful to be the first addition to our family. Now we are husband, wife, and dog.