I Hate Neighbors
Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood is a total farce. That kind of neighborhood with good, friendly, considerate neighbors just doesn't exist in reality.

I hate apartment life, and I'm trying desperately and as quickly as possible to get out of apartments once and for all. Apartments are just a horrible living arrangement. Community living with people you don't know, and likely don't like, and would probably never talk to or come in contact with if you didn't live a few feet away from them, separated only by a thin wall and whatever lives between the walls. I don't like to be around people I know and do like that much, much less people I don't know and definitely don't like.

I didn't think my apartments were this bad when I moved in, but they were cleverly disguised as decent apartments. They fooled me for awhile, but now I'm on to them. It's a horrible place to live. Not so horrible as, say, the apartments where my car was stolen while sitting right out in front of my door. But these apartments are a close second to that situation.

I live on the third floor of a three story building, which I thought was the best option. I still think it is, but there are some disadvantages. The biggest disadvantage being that I can't climb any higher to get further away from all the people who live around me.

When I first moved in, the building was mostly empty, and that was great. Nice and quiet. No loud neighbors, and no smoking neighbors. My two neighbor pet peeves. Well. . . and naked neighbors. But I didn't realize that should be a peeve until it happened last summer. It's something I've tried to block out of my memory, so we'll not go there now. But overall, it was peaceful, and I was pleased. The neighbor below me created some minor noise issues. I'd never met anyone who blasts NPR at enormously loud decibels straight through the night. But he did, so that meant I had to listen to it, too. He was nice and we talked about it, and he tried to adjust the volume, but soon moved out anyway. Quiet followed. All was well.

Then, people started moving in around me. A girl moved in below me, to take the place of NPR Boy. She was quiet for awhile. Then I discovered when the boyfriend and other friends came to visit, it was time to get their loud funky music groove on. I'm used to hearing loud music from time to time, and I can be patient with it as long as it's not keeping me awake at night. But these people are really creative with it, and into the wee hours of the morning. They play it up really loud for maybe five seconds at a time. Just long enough to be really annoying and get you up to either go down and yell at them, or to find the phone to call security. Then they get quiet for a few seconds and you think it's over. But just as you relax, they fire it up again, and they do this for hours. When you call security, they're quiet. So, security thinks I'm bluffing and they get annoyed that they visited a seemingly quiet apartment. When security leaves, the neighbors resume the funky groove, this time extra loud, just to show me they know I called security and that they fooled the Apartment Cops. These neighbors are not nice people. The loud noise and jerky attitude put them on my List.

Then, a couple moved into the apartment right next to me. Remember, I am a hermit. So I'm not particularly fond of new people, and I almost never approach people I don't know to introduce myself or make contact. For awhile I was able to avoid them, but one day the guy introduced himself. The thing they have going for them is that they are nice. Well, I assume they both are. I've never met the wife. But their downfall is that they smoke. A lot. Right in front of my door. The smoking itself is not the downfall. Smoke if you want to. I don't care. The downfall is their smoking location. Since I'm allergic to it and I've got the asthma thing going for me, I'd prefer the smoking not to take place in front of my door, or to come in through my door, since smoke triggers not being able to, well, breathe. The smoking put them on my List.

Next, people behind me, and also behind and below me moved in. I share a wall and some floor with them. I soon found they also smoke, and that smoke oozes through the very thin walls and connected air vents. So, now I have smoke coming in the front door, as well as from behind me and below me. I'm surrounded. And suffocating. For someone who never smokes, and could possibly die from smoking one cigarrette, my whole apartment smells as though I'm a human smoking machine. There's nowhere in my home where I can escape the smoke. I'm literally being smoked out of my own home. The oozing smoke put these neighbors on my List. And me and my hermitage are now surrounded by neighbors I dislike.

As if that wasn't enough smoke, my friendly next door neighbor added a small BBQ grill to his smoking repetoire. He waited a few months to introduce this to the mix, but once he noticed the neighbors in the building across the sidewalk smoking meat in their smoker all the time, he decided he needed to join in that fun. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't have a problem with BBQ. I love BBQ. I don't love it, however, right in front of my door, with the rest of the smoke, oozing into my apartment and contaminating my lungs.

He'd busted out the BBQ a few times, near enough to my front door so that the smoke gently wafted in around and through the door, making my apartment aroma that of BBQ. It's a great outdoor smell, from a ways away. I love the smell of a good BBQ, outside. But when the smell and smoke come blasting through my apartment while I'm trying to, um, breathe, it is not so much a good thing. It's a bad thing. However, I could see that he was genuniely trying to split the difference between his front door and my front door, so I didn't say anything about it the first time or two. I decided to cut him some slack, since he is, in fact, a nice man.

But the other day I came home to see a roaring fire right in front of my door. At this point I was thankful I am non-fat, and that I am quite agile (although not exactly graceful) because I had to tiptoe and shimmy my way around the open pit of flames just to get to my front door. I assumed he wasn't trying to set me on fire, but if he was he certainly had a good set up for it. I was carrying grocery bags and a purse, and I was wearing work clothes and shoes. It was quite a task to maneuver around this nearly Olympic Flame, making sure I didn't catch on fire. Not only that, but the neighbor was across the sidewalk visiting with the Meat Smoker Neighbors, and not even attending his giant pillar of fire. 'Safety First', my favorite universal motto, was being seriously ignored.

He looked up, noticed I was trying to make my way around the inferno, and very nicely called up to me saying, "That's not in your way, is it?" After making sure none of my limbs were singed or charred, I decided it was time to make a simple request. I politely called back that it was okay for now, but if next time he could move the BBQ down the steps to the lower landing, away from my door and other doors, that would be great. I explained that the smoke comes right in my door, and that's not a good thing. Of course, there's also the whole Gauntlet of Fire thing, too. I prefer my obstacle courses with much less scorch potential. But I didn't mention that right then.

I didn't want to totally discourage his BBQ. I am pro-BBQ. But I figured it was a simple request that was really a result of my health concerns related to smoke inhalation. Because otherwise it would totally be a great idea to BBQ right in front of someone's door, in a fully occupied apartment building, with the wind swirling around the landing, while not watching the flames nearly reaching the ceiling of the breezeway. Nope, no risk of danger there . . .

I hate neighbors. I think I have a good case for that. And fortunately plenty of renter's insurance for the day the BBQ goes bad.

Of course, if Mr. BBQ ever offered me any of the good smelling items cooked on his BBQ o' Death that's been stationed outside my door, he could possibly move to a lower place on my Neighbor List o' Doom. . .

C.T.