Wild Bill was a great neighbor. He dumpstered doughnuts and brought them over to us college kids living accross the streets. He was from appalachia and ended up in Walla Walla so he could work at the vegetable canning plant in Dayton.
He once made me a breakfast for black-eyed peas and fried taters.
He would always greet people with a loud, belowing "Howdy Neighbor".
When I was still in grad school I used to live in what amounted to an SRO on the south side of Chicago. It was a maginficently grungy place -- the most distinctive feature of my apartment was the original Murphy bed, with what felt like its original Murphy springs, battered limp from years of heavy occupants, such that when you laid down on it, it enveloped you like a cocoon.
So, I wasn't getting a lot of sleep in that place and tended to pace around instead, reading, smoking, chasing roaches.
One day my downstairs neighbor came up and knocked on the door. When I opened it, she shook her head immediately, "Ah-hah, that's just what I thought. I had to get a look at you. I've been listening to you stomping around up here for weeks now, like a damn sasquatch. You a big guy, you got to learn to walk softer." And she mimed how I could do a noiseless creep to compensate for my bulk.
Feeling a little defensive about my size, I explained that I wasn't doing a lot of stomping up here, except when it came to the roaches, of course. We bonded on the roaches. In the end, we exchanged names, Dominic and Saundra, and agreed that she would call me in the event that my damn stomping got out of control.
I never heard from her but a few weeks later I passed her leaving the building as she was coming in with a few of her girlfriends. "Ooh! There goes Demetrios the Sasquatch. You don't want live under him!"
When I was ten my mother had relocated my older brother and I from Ann Arbor, Michigan to Springdale, Arkansas. As we unloaded the moving van two kids popped up. The two boys introduced themselves to my mom by saying, "got any kids?” My mom ratted me out and fingered me as a potential playmate. Thus began my summer as a red-neck. Scott and Ryan were the names of said boys... brothers. Scott was a year older then I and Ryan was a year younger. Scott was this pudgy blond kid that really liked hitting things (namely Ryan). Ryan was a wiry future NRA member with dreams over growing up to be a trucker. Upon request he would show me his toy truck collection, saying things like, " ...and this is the one I want to drive when I get old enough." and "... isn't it pretty.” We spent the summer doing things I'd never thought to do... exploring sewers, collecting tadpoles, shooting b-b guns at small animals, eroding any pretense of higher society. We lived next door to each other for four years. We never really socialized during the school year, but during the more boring days of summer we would met up and do things that would inspire movies Over The Top, Road House, and Joe Dirt. I don't know if I'm better off for those experiences, but at least I'm more experienced. :)
When I was five our neighbors built themselves a beautiful, expansive black bottom pool. It was the anticipation of the summer and I monitored its progress in minute measures, until it's glorious completion in Late July.
On the very day that the neighbors, a lovely retired couple with grown children tending lives in other states, graciously invited me to dive in we were barbacuing in our backyard. At the suggestion that I take the virgin plunge, my father lifted me up on his shoulders so I could admire the cool obsidian surface, glistening in the late afternoon light.
Already suited in a hot pink water dress in hopeful anticipation of this invitation, I couldn't have been more ready to hit the water.
As my father was lifting me off his shoulders, so I could skuttle over to the pool next door he muttered "da-dun, da-dun, da-dun," in a low and omininous tone. I turned to look at him sharply.
"Jaws," he says simply.
"Huh?"
"Look out for Jaws," chin indicating the pool over the fence.
"Who? What?" I wasn't familiar with the famed monster and his movie at the time, but I got the gist and it sounded bad.
I watched my father wander off to turn the hot dogs on the grill, humming the infamous theme under his breath.
The neighbors, dear as they were, could not get me within 50 feet of their backyard, much less into their splendid pool. Perplexed they watched it sit placid for the duration of the summer.
When I was a kid we had a downstairs neighbour called Mr. Bernstein who was a grumpy, lonely old eccentric who used to bang on his ceiling with a broom at the slightest sound of me and my sisters’ feet on the floor. To make us quiet, Mom and Dad created and imaginary Mr. Bernstein who feasted on little children who waked him from his slumber by running around and making noise, but to us kids it was obvious that the real Mr. Bernstein was a lonely old man who’s children never visited him and who spent all day holed up in his apartment. It’s now 20 years later. Our parents have separated. Only my dad remarried and he’s moved to Boston with his new wife. My little sister is a ski bum in Colorado and my older sister and I are both in the UK. Mr. Bernstein has died and a new family have moved into his apartment. A few months ago when I called home, Mom told me she’d been having problems with the people upstairs. Their grandchildren come round to visit all the time and there’s the constant sound of moving furniture…and children’s feet. Every time I talk to Mom now, she brings up the noise from upstairs. She’s complained to the neighbours, the super, the coop board and nothing, she says, has changed. I am starting to wonder if I should return to New York before Mom replaces her vacuum cleaner with a good sturdy broom.
When I was a kid we had a downstairs neighbour called Mr. Bernstein who was a grumpy, lonely old eccentric who used to bang on his ceiling with a broom at the slightest sound of me and my sisters’ feet on the floor. To make us quiet, Mom and Dad created and imaginary Mr. Bernstein who feasted on little children who waked him from his slumber by running around and making noise, but to us kids it was obvious that the real Mr. Bernstein was a lonely old man who’s children never visited him and who spent all day holed up in his apartment. It’s now 20 years later. Our parents have separated. Only my dad remarried and he’s moved to Boston with his new wife. My little sister is a ski bum in Colorado and my older sister and I are both in the UK. Mr. Bernstein has died and a new family have moved into his apartment. A few months ago when I called home, Mom told me she’d been having problems with the people upstairs. Their grandchildren come round to visit all the time and there’s the constant sound of moving furniture…and children’s feet. Every time I talk to Mom now, she brings up the noise from upstairs. She’s complained to the neighbours, the super, the coop board and nothing, she says, has changed. I am starting to wonder if I should return to New York before Mom replaces her vacuum cleaner with a good sturdy broom.
I live in a building of 28 apartments, but until a friend of mine from five years ago happened to move in downstairs with his nice girlfriend, I had really never spoken to any of my neighbours. When I was looking for a new flatmate recently several candidates asked me if the neighbours were friendly, and I stammered out, 'well, Louis and Jane live downstairs, they're great!' which is true, but they are the exception to the rule.
My neighbours don't make eye contact with me, or each other; in fact, I don't see them very much at all. Instead, they communicate through hostile notes which are taped up in the foyer of the building. A few months ago, it was an anonymous complaint about people using their washing machines after 10 pm. I carried on doing my washing whenever I pleased because I didn't feel the need to respond to an anonymous command; this led to the note being stuffed angrily in my mailbox, which I guess indicated that I, in fact, was the late-washing culprit. This was confirmed later that day by a further anonymous message in my mailbox, sealed in an envelope which said something to the effect of, 'I guess my first note didn't work so maybe this one will...' which made me wonder what the next step would be. A horse's head in my bed? If this unhappy laundry-hater would just pop by my door one day and say, 'Hi, I'm Bob, I'm sorry to bother you, but I hate it when you do your laundry late at night,' I would say, 'Oh, Bob, I'm sooooo sorry, I won't do it again. Would you like a cup of tea?' and then maybe Bob and I would be friends and certainly I would care about not rousing him with my spin cycle. But that would neighbourly, and that's not done in my building.
More recently, the notes have been in relation to post: it seems there's an epidemic of mail theft, and each note suggests that the police are seeking the culprit(s). Now, we live in one of the most crime-ridden boroughs of London (in the nice part, of course) so I'm quite positive that the local fuzz are not going to be too responsive when someone's Amazon order goes astray. But I do find it really sad that my neighbours seem to be so suspicious of each other.
I was tempted to put up my own sign, something to the effect of, 'I'm expecting a package next Tuesday and I'm sure one of you are going to steal it, so it would be great if you would make yourself known before then,' but I didn't. I'm too scared. I think that these invisible people who sign their anonymous notes 'A Disgruntled Resident' don't have a well-developed sense of fun.
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8 comments:
Wild Bill was a great neighbor. He dumpstered doughnuts and brought them over to us college kids living accross the streets. He was from appalachia and ended up in Walla Walla so he could work at the vegetable canning plant in Dayton.
He once made me a breakfast for black-eyed peas and fried taters.
He would always greet people with a loud, belowing "Howdy Neighbor".
To this day I say Howdy when I mean Hello.
When I was still in grad school I used to live in what amounted to an SRO on the south side of Chicago. It was a maginficently grungy place -- the most distinctive feature of my apartment was the original Murphy bed, with what felt like its original Murphy springs, battered limp from years of heavy occupants, such that when you laid down on it, it enveloped you like a cocoon.
So, I wasn't getting a lot of sleep in that place and tended to pace around instead, reading, smoking, chasing roaches.
One day my downstairs neighbor came up and knocked on the door. When I opened it, she shook her head immediately, "Ah-hah, that's just what I thought. I had to get a look at you. I've been listening to you stomping around up here for weeks now, like a damn sasquatch. You a big guy, you got to learn to walk softer." And she mimed how I could do a noiseless creep to compensate for my bulk.
Feeling a little defensive about my size, I explained that I wasn't doing a lot of stomping up here, except when it came to the roaches, of course. We bonded on the roaches. In the end, we exchanged names, Dominic and Saundra, and agreed that she would call me in the event that my damn stomping got out of control.
I never heard from her but a few weeks later I passed her leaving the building as she was coming in with a few of her girlfriends. "Ooh! There goes Demetrios the Sasquatch. You don't want live under him!"
Dominic Boyer
When I was ten my mother had relocated my older brother and I from Ann Arbor, Michigan to Springdale, Arkansas.
As we unloaded the moving van two kids popped up. The two boys introduced themselves to my mom by saying, "got any kids?” My mom ratted me out and fingered me as a potential playmate. Thus began my summer as a red-neck.
Scott and Ryan were the names of said boys... brothers. Scott was a year older then I and Ryan was a year younger. Scott was this pudgy blond kid that really liked hitting things (namely Ryan). Ryan was a wiry future NRA member with dreams over growing up to be a trucker. Upon request he would show me his toy truck collection, saying things like, " ...and this is the one I want to drive when I get old enough." and "... isn't it pretty.”
We spent the summer doing things I'd never thought to do... exploring sewers, collecting tadpoles, shooting b-b guns at small animals, eroding any pretense of higher society.
We lived next door to each other for four years. We never really socialized during the school year, but during the more boring days of summer we would met up and do things that would inspire movies Over The Top, Road House, and Joe Dirt.
I don't know if I'm better off for those experiences, but at least I'm more experienced.
:)
When I was five our neighbors built themselves a beautiful, expansive black bottom pool. It was the anticipation of the summer and I monitored its progress in minute measures, until it's glorious completion in Late July.
On the very day that the neighbors, a lovely retired couple with grown children tending lives in other states, graciously invited me to dive in we were barbacuing in our backyard. At the suggestion that I take the virgin plunge, my father lifted me up on his shoulders so I could admire the cool obsidian surface, glistening in the late afternoon light.
Already suited in a hot pink water dress in hopeful anticipation of this invitation, I couldn't have been more ready to hit the water.
As my father was lifting me off his shoulders, so I could skuttle over to the pool next door he muttered "da-dun, da-dun, da-dun," in a low and omininous tone. I turned to look at him sharply.
"Jaws," he says simply.
"Huh?"
"Look out for Jaws," chin indicating the pool over the fence.
"Who? What?" I wasn't familiar with the famed monster and his movie at the time, but I got the gist and it sounded bad.
I watched my father wander off to turn the hot dogs on the grill, humming the infamous theme under his breath.
The neighbors, dear as they were, could not get me within 50 feet of their backyard, much less into their splendid pool. Perplexed they watched it sit placid for the duration of the summer.
When I was a kid we had a downstairs neighbour called Mr. Bernstein who was a grumpy, lonely old eccentric who used to bang on his ceiling with a broom at the slightest sound of me and my sisters’ feet on the floor. To make us quiet, Mom and Dad created and imaginary Mr. Bernstein who feasted on little children who waked him from his slumber by running around and making noise, but to us kids it was obvious that the real Mr. Bernstein was a lonely old man who’s children never visited him and who spent all day holed up in his apartment.
It’s now 20 years later. Our parents have separated. Only my dad remarried and he’s moved to Boston with his new wife. My little sister is a ski bum in Colorado and my older sister and I are both in the UK. Mr. Bernstein has died and a new family have moved into his apartment.
A few months ago when I called home, Mom told me she’d been having problems with the people upstairs. Their grandchildren come round to visit all the time and there’s the constant sound of moving furniture…and children’s feet.
Every time I talk to Mom now, she brings up the noise from upstairs. She’s complained to the neighbours, the super, the coop board and nothing, she says, has changed.
I am starting to wonder if I should return to New York before Mom replaces her vacuum cleaner with a good sturdy broom.
When I was a kid we had a downstairs neighbour called Mr. Bernstein who was a grumpy, lonely old eccentric who used to bang on his ceiling with a broom at the slightest sound of me and my sisters’ feet on the floor. To make us quiet, Mom and Dad created and imaginary Mr. Bernstein who feasted on little children who waked him from his slumber by running around and making noise, but to us kids it was obvious that the real Mr. Bernstein was a lonely old man who’s children never visited him and who spent all day holed up in his apartment.
It’s now 20 years later. Our parents have separated. Only my dad remarried and he’s moved to Boston with his new wife. My little sister is a ski bum in Colorado and my older sister and I are both in the UK. Mr. Bernstein has died and a new family have moved into his apartment.
A few months ago when I called home, Mom told me she’d been having problems with the people upstairs. Their grandchildren come round to visit all the time and there’s the constant sound of moving furniture…and children’s feet.
Every time I talk to Mom now, she brings up the noise from upstairs. She’s complained to the neighbours, the super, the coop board and nothing, she says, has changed.
I am starting to wonder if I should return to New York before Mom replaces her vacuum cleaner with a good sturdy broom.
I live in a building of 28 apartments, but until a friend of mine from five years ago happened to move in downstairs with his nice girlfriend, I had really never spoken to any of my neighbours. When I was looking for a new flatmate recently several candidates asked me if the neighbours were friendly, and I stammered out, 'well, Louis and Jane live downstairs, they're great!' which is true, but they are the exception to the rule.
My neighbours don't make eye contact with me, or each other; in fact, I don't see them very much at all. Instead, they communicate through hostile notes which are taped up in the foyer of the building. A few months ago, it was an anonymous complaint about people using their washing machines after 10 pm. I carried on doing my washing whenever I pleased because I didn't feel the need to respond to an anonymous command; this led to the note being stuffed angrily in my mailbox, which I guess indicated that I, in fact, was the late-washing culprit. This was confirmed later that day by a further anonymous message in my mailbox, sealed in an envelope which said something to the effect of, 'I guess my first note didn't work so maybe this one will...' which made me wonder what the next step would be. A horse's head in my bed? If this unhappy laundry-hater would just pop by my door one day and say, 'Hi, I'm Bob, I'm sorry to bother you, but I hate it when you do your laundry late at night,' I would say, 'Oh, Bob, I'm sooooo sorry, I won't do it again. Would you like a cup of tea?' and then maybe Bob and I would be friends and certainly I would care about not rousing him with my spin cycle. But that would neighbourly, and that's not done in my building.
More recently, the notes have been in relation to post: it seems there's an epidemic of mail theft, and each note suggests that the police are seeking the culprit(s). Now, we live in one of the most crime-ridden boroughs of London (in the nice part, of course) so I'm quite positive that the local fuzz are not going to be too responsive when someone's Amazon order goes astray. But I do find it really sad that my neighbours seem to be so suspicious of each other.
I was tempted to put up my own sign, something to the effect of, 'I'm expecting a package next Tuesday and I'm sure one of you are going to steal it, so it would be great if you would make yourself known before then,' but I didn't. I'm too scared. I think that these invisible people who sign their anonymous notes 'A Disgruntled Resident' don't have a well-developed sense of fun.
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