The Savages in my Neighbourhood

THEY SAID THIS AREA IS PEACEFUL. HA!

I hear a man screaming, “I shit my pants!” I go out to the balcony to find out where the noise is coming from. The man is staggering on the sidewalk while trying to smoke a cigarette.

Turns out I know this man. It’s my crazy neighbour, Dennis. Once a month I hear him shouting gibberish though our mutual wall. Sometimes he goes out on his balcony and yells at passers-by, or the moon, like a werewolf doing a Jerry Lewis impression.

The werewolf theory makes sense. Our daytime exchanges in the hallways and elevators have been nothing but pleasant. I’d pegged him as a tidy gay fellow I could borrow can openers and sugar from. Then, on any random night, transformed by some evil curse, he turns into this sloppy creature who now howls on the street.

I watch the top of his grey head sway in reverse directions from his body. He steps forward and bumps into the brick fence that encompasses the front yard of our building. More vulgar gibberish.

Something falls from the sky and explodes in the middle of Parliament Street, about four metres from Dennis. An egg. He staggers back and looks up. “What the fuuuuk?”
He catches me looking back at him. “I know youuu!” he fumes. I duck back into my apartment in a panic because now he thinks I’m the one throwing eggs at him.

I sit on the couch, get up, turn around, mute the TV, and go back onto the balcony. Fuck, I’m thinking. I should explain: I saw the egg come from way over there, Dennis! Jeez some real sick mutants live around here! I could say.

But when I go back onto my balcony, he’s gone. I tiptoe to my front door and look out the peephole. I hear the elevator door open, followed by carpety footsteps coming down the hall. I’m enormously concerned he’ll come pound on my door. I lock my back-up lock.

“How do I get in here?” Dennis asks himself. I hear the jingling of keys. Dropping of keys. Opening of door.

I stand in the middle of my apartment and listen to him thump around next door. It occurs to me he might try to peek into my apartment around our balcony partition, the way I’ve tried to peek into his. I close and lock my balcony door — but rather than doing it quietly as intended, I pull the door too hard and it slams.

“Hello? Hellooo?" He says.

Jesus Christ! I sit on the couch and pray this isn’t happening. Now he thinks I hate him. Now it will be awkward in the hallway and I’ll have to fucking move.

I spend an hour mock-watching TV before the howling and banging finally subsides. Not long after, I hear a new noise outside. I run to my bedroom window and look down to the street. A woman is chasing a uni-legged man in a wheelchair. She’s screaming, “That’s my money!” She bangs on the windows of a van parked on the street. He wheels away, as fast as he can. Is she a prostitute? Are they a bickering homeless couple? Is it pay day at the Money Mart? So many questions.

At the same time, this is par for the course around here. Every week I’ve got some new story about these freaks. Last week it was Mullet Man.


HE LOOKS LIKE THIS MAN

Mullet Man always wears black and always takes the stairs. He’s not what you’d call friendly but, aside from being slightly smelly, he hasn’t caused problems either.

Last Sunday, he passes me in the hallway, bleeding from the right eye. He’s covering his eye with one hand, and the other hand, covered in blood, dangles in front of him.

I’m walking beside my Dad at the time, so I’m uncharacteristically inquisitive towards Mullet Man. Dad should protect me from Mullet Man, is the idea.

“Hey man, you OK?” I say. Pause. “Need some help man?”

He doesn’t respond. Just goes into his apartment and leaves a smear of blood on the door frame. It is smeared there still.

There’s more! Other freaky run-ins have included:

— Being cornered by a teenager in the elevator. He asked me if I wanted to “party” and suggested I “get off on his floor.”

— A mutant took my period undies out of the dryer because I was ten minutes late in collecting them.

— The lady informed me of the “thriving society” of crack addicts living under the bridge who have allegedly been spotted getting high in the stairwells of my building. (She scolded me for laughing at her choice of word: ‘thriving’. Like, they're really SUCCEEDING under the bridge? Building empires and shit? “It’s not funny. It’s a very serious issue,” she said.)

Last month my excitement revolved around the two tanned and petite student-types (strippers?) who moved down the hall with their yappy dogs. I couldn’t help myself from telling them about the cockroaches, hot on the heels of my neighbourly ‘welcome to the building’ speech. Their eyes widened with agony.

“Roaches. Eww,” said the blonde.
“Oh my god, but you haven’t seen MICE have you?” asked the brunette.

“No. No mice YET. But I have a cat, so maybe that’s why I don’t see them.” Their furrowed brows indicated that I was being a killjoy.

“But don’t worry,” I said, “between your dogs and my cat, we’ll be the pest-fighting team!”

My sudden switch to peppiness seemed to throw them off. They giggled politely and continued down the hall to their door.

Telling them about the giant rats I saw nosing through the trashpile by the condemned houses down the street would have been too cruel/fun.

In conclusion, it seems I am exposing myself as the crazy one. I’m a peeping Tina. I’ve used cups as inter-wall eavesdropping devices. I obsess about all the things that will come get me and my precious, precious cat. I run to the door or the balcony, or wherever the noise is coming from, like some snoopy Neighbourhood Watch of one. I try to corrupt the minds of innocent young tenants and their dogs. I’m just as vile as these other St. Jamestown savages!

Happy Birthday Jules

If I ever become one of those sour pusses who wail and moan on their birthday, please ensure I don’t live to see my next one.

What’s the point of being sour to the fact that you’ve made it as far as you have? Even though your career or your love life or whatever might not be as developed as you thought it would be by this age, be grateful for the fact that you made it here at all. It’s a luxury to be able to celebrate yourself. Getting down on yourself for having experienced another year is like trading a diamond for a lump of coal.

Me, I’m extra lucky. Yesterday (my birthday) started like any other day of the year. I went to work and felt the usual mid-afternoon stress-fatigue. But then I left the Hall and went to Heather’s where I was wined and dined and showered with gifts. My belly full of cheese, fruits, nuts, paté and bacon-wrapped fillet mignon, I left Heather’s feeling grateful for her friendship and awestruck by the pink, foggy sunset that draped the city like a gift from god.

Back at work, I was further spoiled by my coworkers. I was given free catering food, a box of chocolates, a surprise gift in my locker, an other gift on the change room, a dozen hugs AND it was even suggested that I quit wiping the tables cause ‘it’s my birthday…I shouldn’t have to do anything’!

After our shift, a bunch of us went to the Rivoli where, unfortunately, the birthday gods didn’t make me any better at pool. But I loved having my peeps together, including a special man who came to celebrate my birthday regardless of his job interview the next day.

The phone calls and Facebook messages made me feel truly loved. And it doesn’t stop there! My special day continues throughout next week. A dinner party with my girls tomorrow, dinner with Mom and Dad Sunday, and another dinner Thursday.

Not everyone is this lucky. I’m proud for being clever enough to acknowledge it. Maybe it’s a cleverness that can only come with age. Now 27, I’m more self-actualized and calm than I was ten years ago when I was supposedly going through my “carefree” teens. I sweat and cried buckets back then cause I just didn’t know how to deal with anything! But now I know what I like and what kind of person I want to be. I can identify what makes me happy and what doesn’t. Number one on the list of things that make me happy is true connections with people who love me. Yet again this year, my birthday brought out that love. Thanks everyone!