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.