Love Thy Neighbor
“...Thou shalt Love thy Neighbor as Thyself.”
-Matthew 22:39

“I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was. Now what I’m with isn’t it, and what’s it seems weird and scary to me. And it’ll happen to you, too!”
-Abraham “Grandpa” Simpson


When I lived in an apartment in Boston, I had a downstairs neighbor who would call me up at 7 p.m. and whisper hysterically, “I can hear you sweeping!”
“Excuse me?” I’d say.
“You’re sweeping your floor. I can hear it.”
“And?”
“And I’ve recently had surgery, and I need my rest.”
“And?”
“Would you please stop sweeping?”
“No.”
I’d hang up on her, and continue sweeping. Then she’d begin to pound on her ceiling. Then I’d practice tap dancing in a pair of steel toed work boots. My phone would ring again, and then I’d grab the silverware drawer and empty it onto the floor. She’d resume pounding with a violence shocking for a woman recently incapacitated by surgery. Then I’d tiptoe very quietly into the kitchen and grab my one pot and a wooden spoon. When all was calm and quiet for a minute or two, I’d put the pot upside down on the floor and perform a percussion solo I called, “My Downstairs Neighbor is a Pathological Liar.” For over two years this woman claimed to have “just had surgery” and needed to rest, which means that either she was having major invasive surgery every two days or that she was, as my song asserted, a complete pathological liar. Everything I did kept her from “resting,” including showering, washing dishes, and walking on the floor. If anyone anywhere in the building was making noise, she’d call me, day or night. The phone would wake me from a dead sleep and a tiny voice weak with agony would demand that I turn my stereo down.
“My stereo isn’t on,” I’d say. “You just woke me up.”
“Someone is playing a stereo very loudly.”
“It’s not me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Well, who is it then?”
“How the fuck should I know?”

I hung up on this woman more times than I can count. I also slammed my door in her face more than once, after inviting her to call the authorities to have me hauled off for having pizza delivered after 10 p.m. Once I attempted to actually talk to her, and to calmly state that she couldn’t reasonably expect to never hear me walking on my floor or flushing my toilet. I assured her these were things I simply had to do. When she asked how I expected her to cope with it, I suggested she move far, far into the country, into a vine covered cottage nestled in a shady glen at the end of a long unpaved road. It was our one and only chat.

So I know that neighbors can be troublesome. I also know that one can reasonably expect to be inconvenienced by them from time to time. I am not what I would consider an “unreasonable person,” and I don’t expect the world to bend itself to my will every time I feel like whining. I wouldn’t mind if it did, of course, but I don’t expect it.

That being said, I must also say this: I hate our new neighbors.

I’d hate them even more if I knew who they were. It’s impossible to tell which of the dozen or so 15 to 20 year olds constantly coming and going at all hours of the day and night actually live in the house next door. They come on bikes, scooters, and skateboards. They come in tricked out Cadillac Escalades with neon running boards and Ford Escorts held together with duct tape. Spot any kid within a five mile radius of my house wearing a knit cap, baggy clothes, and a smart-ass smirk, and it’s a given that they’re headed to the house next door to hang out in the front yard, smoke, drink cheap beer, scream obscenities and be cool. Occasionally, they enjoy climbing up onto their roof to pass a pipe around while having a witty 3 a.m. conversation, every word of which can clearly be heard from my bedroom window less than 20 feet away.

Boy 1: “Hey dude, are you going to get food?”
Boy 2: “Yeah, so?”
Boy 1: “Will you get me a burger?”
Boy 2: “Where’s your money?”
Boy 1: “Come on man, don’t be a dick.”
Boy 3: “Ha ha ha.”
Girl 1: “You’re so sexy.”
Boy 3: “Thanks.”
Boy 1: “Where’s Damien?”
Boy 2: “Who the fuck cares?”
Boy 3: “Dude, I like totally had art with Damien.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, I know. Me too.”
Girl 1: “I totally love your art.”
Boy 1: “Thanks.”
Girl 1: “It’sexy.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, I know.”
Girl 1: “I, like, totally love Damien.”
Boy 1: “Yeah, he’s cool.”
Boy 2: “Me and Damien like totally threw up once.”
Boy 3: “Dude, I remember that! That was sick.”
Girl 1: “Damien’s awesome.”
Boy 1: “Dude, give me a cigarette.”
Boy 2: “Fuck no.”
Boy 1: “Come on man, don’t be a dick.”
Girl 2: “Ha ha ha.”
Boy 2: “Dude, I’ll kick your ass.”
Girl 1: “I totally love you. You’re so sexy.”
Boy 2: “Thanks.”
Girl 1: “Who’s car is that?”
Boy 2: “Is that Damien?”
Boy 1: “I’ll go see. How the fuck do I get down?”
Girl 1: “Ha ha ha.”
Boy 1: “Seriously, I don’t remember.”
Boy 3: “Just jump.”
Boy 1: “Fuck you, bro.”
Boy 2: “I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass.”
Girl 1: “You’re so sexy!”


If people want to drink, smoke whatever, engage in profound conversation and fall deeply in love, it’s really none of my concern. I don’t have the time to evaluate the motivations or personal choices of complete strangers unless they’re amusing. So why do I hate them? It could be because our dogs aren’t used to such goings on next door, and respond to every slamming car door and every scream of “Dude, I’m so wasted!” with a window rattling barrage of barking and snarling. It could be that I hate them because of the empty beer bottles left in our mailbox, or the trash that blows over from their yard into ours. It could be because a few of them actually live in a tent pitched in the back yard, or that our trash collection bins are always full of empty beer cans and covered over with old, stained mattresses. I could hate them for the nonstop noise, the cars parked along the front of our house, or for any one of inconsiderate, un-neighborly things they do that would have made my past downstairs neighbor collapse into the fetal position, whispering over and over “I’ve just had surgery...I need my rest...I’ve just had surgery...I need my rest...”

Or, I could hate them because I find myself saying, “Those damn kids next door are at it again.” Or because I find myself hanging out my bedroom window and shaking my fist, screaming, “You goddam kids better quiet down over there!” Goddam kids? Since when do I use the term “goddam kids?” Have I actually arrived at the point in my life when I let a pack of rowdy teenagers get the best of me? Am I actually old enough now to consider an 18 year old a kid? Have I become the uncool and grumpy old man who lives next door, constantly telling them to “knock that racket off,” “harshing their buzz,” and pooping on their party?

The oldest I’ve ever felt is when I found myself on the phone with a police dispatcher reporting that “those damn kids next door are being too loud and probably doing drugs.” I felt even older as I lurked by my darkened window, waiting for the cops to arrive so I could watch them bust up the party. Imagine my giddiness when not one, but two squad cars pulled up. Imagine the delicious satisfaction of suddenly hearing everything fall so quiet that I could hear “Shiiiiiit” being muttered under someone’s breath. A-ha! Take that, you punks! You hooligans! That’ll teach you to be young and free-spirited! Not on my watch, bucko!
While I was sad that the oleander hedge completely obscured my view of the two uniformed officers approaching the party now quietly assembled on the gravel of the front yard next door, I was, for once, glad I could hear every word.

Officer 1: “You kids having some kind of party over here?”
Boy 1: “No officer.”
Boy 2: “We’re just, you know, hangin’ out.”
Officer 1: “Is there a reason you need to be hanging out outside? It’s after 3 a.m.”
Girl 1: “We were just waiting for my friend.”
Officer 2: “And you weren’t climbing up on the roof there?”
Boy 1: “What? No, officer.”
Officer 2: “Then why did we get a report saying that there were people up on the roof?”
Girl 1: “Oh, well, they were up on the roof, but they were just waiting for me.”
Boy 2: “That was, like, just one time.”
Officer 1: “Are you kids doing drugs out here?”
Girl 1: “What?”
Boy 2: “What?”
Boy 1: “No officer.”
Officer 1: “Do you all live here?”
Girl 1: “I do.”
Officer 1: “You realize this is a residential neighborhood. Your neighbors don’t appreciate you outside being loud this time of night.”
Girl 1: “Oh my God! I’m so sorry. I had no idea we were being loud.”
Officer 1: “Why don’t you move the party inside?”
Girl 1: “Oh, God, we totally will.”
Officer 2: “If we get called back again tonight, you’re going to the only one in trouble since this is your residence. Understand?”
Girl 1: “I’m so sorry.”
Officer 1: “Keep it down now. We don’t want to come back.”
Girl 1: “Thank you, officer.”
Officer 2: “You all have a good night, now.”


I was disappointed. Clearly the punks were lying. Why weren’t batons smashing some skulls? Why weren’t pockets being turned out, evidence confiscated, and perps being wrestled roughly to the asphalt? No one even searched the house or looked into the back yard, where a beer can pyramid had toppled at the entrance to the tent. Where were the handcuffs and the Miranda rights? Where was the mace and tear gas? Where was the justice?

As the squad cars pulled away, Boy 1 said to Girl 1, “You totally played that off awesome.”
Girl 1: “I fucking hate cops.”
Boy 2: “Assholes.”
Girl 1: “How did they know about the pot?”
Boy 3: “Dude, they can totally smell that shit.”
Girl 1: “I hate cops.”
Boy 2: “Man, this one time? These cops were totally trying to hassle me and my friend, and we were all like, Fuck you man!”
Boy 1: “Man, I had the cops after me in Montana, and in Colorado, and in fuckin’ Oklahoma, but I was all like, Fuck you, man!”
Girl 1: “Oh my God! That’s so sexy!”
Boy 1: “I wonder who fuckin’ called the cops.”
Boy 2: “Assholes.”
Girl 1: “Fuckin’ neighbors.”

There was more, but it was much quieter, and it was hard to hear. I waited for a little while for one of them to do something loudly, so I could summon less forgiving authorities, but nothing happened. After a while I gave up. It was late and I needed my rest.