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I can count on one hand how many interactions I’ve had with my neighbors. I met Lindsey, my downstairs neighbor, over the summer when we both got back from a run at the same time, and met her fiancé about a minute later after I made a joke about us finishing at the same time. I met my neighbor from across the hall in December when her heat was broken and it was 46 degrees in her apartment. I don’t remember her name, mostly because I just gave her the name and number of the repair guy and passive aggressively rushed her out. Look, I was cooking dinner and my veggies were going to burn. There’s a definitive balance between being kind and knowing that you have more important shit going on, so I’m sorry if I was able to recognize it before she was.
Needless to say, I’m not exactly the most popular guy in my apartment building, which sucks because I’m pretty sure I’m the only guy in my whole building. Seriously, there are only five apartments in the building and my roommate is a woman. Holy shit. I’ve lived here since May. I can’t believe I never realized that.
Anyway, my lifestyle has always been relatively problematic—especially when the walls and floorboards are thin. Maybe it’s genetics, maybe it’s my lack of self-control. Either way, I’m a generally loud person, which, in combination with my transparency for anything personal and general love for shenanigans, makes for a horrible living experience. Not sure what I mean? Let me cite some events from the last few days that could clarify.
Attempting to enter my apartment at 3:45 a.m. on Sunday morning.
I don’t live in a full-on high-rise apartment building. I live in a town home that was converted into several different living spaces for several different tenants. So essentially, to get to my apartment, you have to walk up a flight of stairs that offers the option of Lindsey on the first floor and myself on the second. It’s a tight spiral staircase with a heavy echo, which only gets worse as the night goes on.
So, when I spent the Saturday night drinking more cocktails than I could count and hitting up a 4 a.m. bar only to put two bucks into the jukebox because I needed to hear “Say It Ain’t So” by Weezer, the only possible way for me to fall (literally) into my bed was to hit every wall and stumble on half of the stairs on the way up. Sorry, Lindsey. You deserve better than that.
Getting unreasonably irate with my pizza delivery guy on Sunday night.
My Sunday night ritual is ordering delivery food and drinking an entire bottle of wine while watching some indie movie on Netflix and simultaneously streaming whatever NFL game is on. I do this almost every Sunday in an attempt to make my Scaries more tolerable. Sometimes I cook my own dinner, sometimes I meet someone out, and then there are times when the pizza delivery guy DRIVES DOWN THE ALLEY NEXT TO MY PLACE THREE TIMES, DESPITE MY STANDING ON THE STOOP WAVING HIM DOWN. Like, dude, if you haven’t hit my address yet, just drive a few feet further and I bet this whole experience would be a lot more seamless.
Playing music at absurdly high volumes on weeknights.
Since my company is paranoid about privacy, I don’t really get an opportunity to write columns on the job. Instead, I like to make myself one or two or five Old Fashioned’s whenever I get home and pump out some content. Since I can’t focus in absolute silence, I tend to play my music way too loud to distract me from the fact that I’m alone (Note: My roommate is out of town a lot, either on business or visiting her boyfriend a few states away).
For example, at the time I’m writing this, it’s 12:11 a.m., and I’m rocking the album “On The Impossible Past” by The Menzingers. There’s nothing refined about it, it’s just straight up blue collar punk rock. But I just realized that I’m at 75 percent volume in an otherwise silent apartment. That, paired with the boots that I haven’t taken off yet that echo whenever I get up to make myself another drink…let’s just say that if I had a big day tomorrow, I would be furious with me as a neighbor.
Am I in the wrong? Of course, I am. But, you know what? I’m working from home today for the first time ever (seriously), so I think I’m going to milk the hell out of it. If nobody’s brought up the problem yet, it must not be that important, right?
I guess the only thing left to do is wait for someone to complain, so I suggest you do that soon, Lindsey From Downstairs or Stranger From Across The Hall. Otherwise, I’ll be the worst neighbor in recent memory and will remain stagnant in my ways forever. Your move. .
Respond
Charlie
Using sarcasm as a defense mechanism since 1993. At any given moment I'm either tired, drunk, or stressed out. Get at me at charliepgp@gmail.com or whatever.
@therescharlie
@herescharlie
herescharlie
My very first night in my very first apartment was a night my neighbor won’t forget.
First weekend in town, first night at my place. The only things I had in there were internet, an air mattress, a baseball bat, clothes, coffee (duh), and a rack of natty (don’t judge, I wasn’t an adult yet. Still not one).
Found a shitty corner bar that liked to dress up as an Irish pub and entertain those who think that real Irish pubs are a place that white instagrammars like themselves could go to and seem cultured or cool. Buried myself in the corner and drank shit beer until I could no longer order with words but had to simply raise a hand with a finger outstretched. In retrospect, this is probably why the bar was gone after I came back from deployment. Something to do with shitty serving standards and letting people get destructively drunk.
Now I, being new in town, was playing it safe (or as safe as a blacked out 21 year old could get). I stumbled home and made it to my single bedroom cavern that was a shrine to shitty coffee and furious masturbation sessions. I proceed to pass out and wake up at 4 am wondering why my neck hurt. Guess you gotta inflate air mattresses or something. Whatever.
Then I heard it again. A fucking horrendously loud thump against my door. I immediately kick into CaffeineAndRage mode, and grab the baseball bat. With the confidence of the slight buzz that remained and no knowledge that I was wearing nothing but my lucky skull and crossbones boxers, I approached the door and opened it.
To my right I saw some legs disappear behind a corner, and I heard the door to the stairs open. I give half hearted chase, hoping this twatcannon of a prankster was intimidated by the blinding light of my thighs or some other part of me that could possibly be intimidating (no part of me). I turn around, satisfied that I’ll be left alone, and I hear a click.
Fuck. The door is locked. The door automatically locked when I let it close behind me. Now I have two options: go wait in the front desk area in nothing but my underwear until management arrives, or start knocking on doors until someone answers. Not wanting to be “that guy” to management, I start knocking. Around the third door I look up and see a camera in the corner. Oh well. Hopefully the fact that my chest hair looks like someone duct taped Brillo pads to my tits gives some security guard a chuckle. I’ve pretty much given up.
And then an absolute angel answers the door. By “angel” I mean through her actions, not her looks, unless you’re into portly 40 year olds. And by “her,” I mean “I think it was a her.” But hey, she just opened the door to a half naked 6’4″ dude who’s wearing practically nothing but underwear meant for a six year old and is wielding a baseball bat, so she’s an angel in my book. I borrow her phone, call a lock smith, and proceed to let him destroy the super expensive lock on my door. She was laughing the whole time (so really by angel I mean she was more of an angel-bitch. Like those commercials for sour patch kids but in reverse).
The next day, on my way out the front, the super hot receptionist stopped me to sign some extra paperwork. I let her know what happened and told her I’d happily pay for a new lock. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot and I was suffering from that tendency that most guys my age have when talking to a hot girl where dumb words come out of our mouth and dollars come out of our wallet. Whatever. As I turn to leave, she says,
“Hey, CaffeineAndRage?”
“Yeah?” (Please flirt please flirt please sitonmyfaceImeanflirt)
“Nice boxers.”
Goddammit.
We need a character limit…
All I need is four.
Sup?
You had me at the first “sup” 😉
https://media.giphy.com/media/3EAKxhqKHYGUaLR3kk/giphy.gif
Missed opportunity. Should have winked at the receptionist.
I found out recently that hanging a flashing “live nude” neon sign out your window is a sure fire way to piss of my neighbors.
Well yeah, it’s called false advertising.
Alternative fact*
How can they be mad? It’s called decor, you neanderthals.
Take your shoes off inside, you heathen.
You need some kitten mittens for yourself
And Charlie left off the activity that pisses his neighbors off the most… playing Nightcrawlers…
You have a female roommate?
I just moved from south GA to Chicago with my gf. Until I’m settled into my new job and figuring out where we want to live in the city, we’re living with 3 of her sorority sisters from college. Yes, it’s me and 4 girls. (I should probably write an article or two). We live on the top floor of a 4 unit place. The people under us are the absolute lamest. Not sure if siblings or married, but judging by the mail box they have the same last name and different first. We have a pregame maybe once a month or so at our place, including last Saturday. 745pm on a Saturday, half a mile from Wrigley, we get a text from our landlord “the neighbors are complaining, can you try to keep it down”. This is the 4th time something similar has happened. Including the time they knocked on the door and asked one of the girls if she could stop vacuuming.
They probably aren’t very happy about it but it would take much more than that for me to knock on a neighbors door and complain like schmuck.
like a*
Charlie, we have the same Sunday night routine…sup?
My name is Inigo Montoya.
You are a pathetic excuse for a man.
Prepare to die.