Last week, our downstairs neighbor called the property management office to complain that we were making too much noise. The property management office called us and left a voicemail informing us there had been a complaint. I listened to the voicemail twice. The first time, I just laughed because my partner and I are pretty sedate and stick to our routine of couch-potato-ing (let’s just pretend potato is a verb for now, shall we?) and TV binge-watching most of the time. Every now and then, however, one of us might get a bit pissed off at the world over-exuberant and shout a “fuck you!” colorful phrase or two at the TV or one another, depending on the situation.
Other than that, we are good neighbors. I wish we had neighbors like us. We are awesome neighbors, and the ass-wipe downstairs needs to get a rope with which to hang himself a life.
The second time I listened to the voicemail, I just got mad, and I let it stew, as I tend to do when someone is unreasonable with me. For example, back when we lived in Ohio, I had a personal vendetta against our garbage collector guy because he would never take more than two bags of trash at a time. I tried on several occasions to test him by leaving three bags out for his collection. He left one fucking bag on the curb every single time. Consequently, I hated this man I had never actually seen, because he was doing his job too damned well and according to our contract. I spent way too much time thinking about the whole thing and how much I wanted to give that garbage collector guy a big one-finger salute piece of my mind.
Thank goodness, I did refrain from going to war with my garbage collector guy. We have to pick our battles carefully, right? You never know who will do something next to bring out your murderous alter ego bad side.
Back to mean neighbor guy from downstairs. I did call the property management office and speak to one of the useless dingbats office clerks regarding my neighbor’s complaints. Turns out, he was complaining about the TV being too loud and the creaky floors.
Okay, he had a definite point about the TV. My partner has hearing problems and turns the TV up so loud, it gives me a headache. I have tried to persuade her to turn the volume down, but she is one stubborn bitch headstrong woman.
As for the creaky floors, there is not much we can do about that. Walk lighter, maybe? Buy a hover-board and surf the air-conditioner currents around the apartment? Learn to fly? Move? Although I could totally get into riding a hover-board, none of those options panned out for us at this current time. Furthermore, I figured the bad neighbor guy from downstairs must not have a fucking clue any idea that he had pissed off a couple of vindictive bitches. Either that, or he’s as dumb as a Republican donating to Donald Trump’s campaign.
Either way, I was letting it stew and the pot was getting thicker and stinkier with each passing moment. I had a mental closet full of retorts, come-backs, insults, excuses, and snarky rhetoric for mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs.
And then I came face to face with the source of my agitation. His name was Will.
I was taking the trash out (why does everything always lead back to the trash?) and I had four bags to carry. I also have eighteen stairs to descend with said trash and my cane or walker, whichever I’m using. That particular morning, I proceeded to throw all four bags down the stairs and was ready to make my descent, when scary, mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs appears out of nowhere. Actually he had come from his apartment, but I do tend to embellish now and then.
He pointed to my trash and said, “Is that trash?”
No, moron, those are fifty dead cats. They used to be my pets, but I slaughtered every one of them so they wouldn’t make so much fucking noise!
I actually didn’t say anything, just nodded yes.
“I’ll take them for you,” he offered, in a friendly, good-neighborly tone. What had he done with my mean neighbor guy?
I finally found some words. “Thank you very much! My name is Terri.” He did not look amused or mad. He just started picking up the trash bags. I couldn’t help but wish he would have been my garbage collector guy back in Ohio.
Upon collecting all four bags of trash, he said, “Not a problem. My name is Will. Have a good day.” Then he was gone.
There I stood, at the top of my stairs, mentally erasing each one of the nasty names I had made up for my neighbor guy. Now he was just “neighbor guy, Will”.
Before you ask, no I did not completely change my mind about my neighbor. He still called and complained about two older women making too much noise.
My message to my neighbor, as I let the whole noise/trash/stairs thing go: Mr. Will, neighbor guy, I’m thinking about taking up a new dance. You might want to put the property management phone number on your speed dial. Muahhhh!