Since moving into this apartment complex about three years ago, I haven't had much luck with upstairs neighbors. Actually, at first I thought I was very lucky. For the first three months, there was a very quiet single woman living there. She was never seen nor heard. It almost was like having no neighbor at all. Then she moved out.
And she was replaced by a family with young children. Not only did it sound as if the children made it a regular pastime to climb up on their dressers and leap to the floor (my ceiling), but the father was a drummer. A drummer who thought is was a swell idea to practice at 1:00 in the morning. Yeah. Oh, and he sucked, too. I'd say "keep practicing" but I really didn't want to hear it. Then they moved out.
And were replaced by another family. With young children. Three children under the age of six whose "pitter-patter" of small feet sounded like a herd of elephants galloping across my ceiling. All. Of. The. Time. Then they moved out.
Now there is a young woman living upstairs. But she entertains so frequently, I'm not entirely sure who lives there with her. I think she has a sister or a roommate or somebody with a baby, because I occasionally hear a baby. But that's not the problem. The problem is (or was; it is less so now) she regularly has large groups of visitors hanging out on her front porch, drinking and smoking. Now this wouldn't be so much of a bother except these "parties" don't seem to get started til about midnight. And they continue to 2:00 in the morning. And it doesn't seem to matter what day of the week it is.
So one morning, after an especially sleepless night, I went to the office and reported the noise problem. And they make it all official-- you have to fill out a form and all-- and they told me that after three complaints, she could be kicked out.
The noise continued to be a factor. I hadn't made things better; in fact, I felt an increase of tension, because (it seemed to me--maybe I was imagining things) now I had a posse of 20-something males glaring down at me every time I walked by. I thought about writing up another report, but I realized this really wasn't getting me what I wanted. I don't want her kicked out, I just want them to respect my space. It was time to take action.
So--channeling my best diplomatic heroes:
Gandalf,
Qui-Gon, and the good
Doctor--I went upstairs and knocked on the door. And this petite little blonde answered with a voice like an 8-year-old. She was so cute. But she kept calling me "ma'am". That was not so cute. I introduced myself and I explained that I worked full time and was a grad student at the university and that really the only hours I had to sleep were between midnight and 6am. Could she please ask her friends to keep it down, especially on weeknights? I also dropped a not-so-subtle hint that as my bedroom window was right at the bottom of the stairs, I could hear everything going on up here. Translation: I hear a lot of personal stuff you probably don't want your neighbor to know.
I think she got the hint. Mostly. Things have been quieter. Mostly.
The thing is, although the noise irritates me, I really don't dislike these people. As I lie in bed, listening to their banter (it's not eavesdropping if they're talking loud enough for me to hear, is it?), it's hard not to get nostalgic for my 20-something years and all the late nights spent on my best friend's back porch. They're really not bad people. They're just oblivious.
Two things made me decide that I liked them. Once I heard two of the guys talking. One was counseling the other, trying to give him the benefit of his experience, and he said, "How old are you?" And his friend replied, "20 1/2." And he said, "Well, I'm 21. I'm older, so you have to listen to me." An entire six months more of wisdom and experience. I love it!
The second involved an altercation at 4:30 in the morning. After I got over my irritation of being woken at this ungodly hour, I decided to find out what all the fuss was about. Apparently, they had been drinking, and one friend wanted to drive home. He wanted his keys. He grew exceedingly belligerent and demanding. He only lived 10 minutes away, he said. He had to get to work at 9am. He cursed and he swore and he disowned his own brother (who was apparently in the group). You know what? They never gave in. They never gave him those keys. And I thought, although their choice of activity may be questionable (I really have no idea if they are all of legal age to drink or not), they did right by their friend. They are being responsible. Or as responsible as they can under the circumstances.
But there is another problem. All that smoking going on upstairs has turned my back patio into the deepest ash pit of Mordor. Again, weeks slip by as my irritation grows. Aren't they using ash trays? Don't they realize other people live down here? So, once again, I don my diplomat's hat and head upstairs. Actually, first I went to the dollar store and bought an ashtray, then I went upstairs.
Hi. Remember me? Here's a present for you. Well, I wasn't quite so abrupt. As it turns out, they
have been using an ashtray. (Now they have two). And, no, they didn't realize how much ash was drifting downstairs. But they would try to contain it.
What happened next really surprised me. One of the guys said, "If you like, I'll go downstairs once a week and sweep up for you." Not in a sarcastic,
Eddie Haskell kind of way. But in a nice, sincere kind of way. I hope he was sincere anyway. I accepted his offer. But even if he doesn't, even if he "forgets," I still think it was nice he offered. The thing is, they are aware now of the consequences of their activity, and perhaps... *perhaps* they will be more consciencious about cleaning up after themselves, or taking preventitive measures, or something.
What it comes down to is this: I have to believe that diplomacy works. How can we make peace with another nation, if we can't even talk to our own neighbors?
