Mighty Neighborly, a regular feature on the Precipitate blog, explores how everyday, local decisions impact a larger community and the environment.
Over the past week or so, my neighbor has stepped up his crazy game. No longer content to knock on my door repeatedly à la Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory, or to wait for me to leave or enter my apartment so he can suddenly spring upon me (that was his way of obeying the cops who said to stop bothering me), he’s taken to leaving his door open. All day. For a week.
I’ve tried negotiations. I’ve tried sanctions. Now it’s a cold war. He stands outside of my door, rattling plastic bags and clearing his throat for hours at a time. I talk loudly on the phone about potential calls I might make to the building manager or to the police, as though they might actually do something this time. He might have me beat in crazy, but having lived with six other women at once, I have a powerful skill at passive aggression.
I was about to write that there would be a problem if this little war began to escalate, but that’s only partly true. It’s a problem now. I don’t feel secure in my own home. Since this neighbor saga began, my inability to recharge has kept me on edge, sapping my working memory and my patience. My temper is erratic by nature; I could do without the help. So it is with much sadness that I announce that I will be leaving my current apartment.
And it is with much joy that I announce I’m going to attempt to buy a house and take a roommate. The roommate’s a given. A friend of mine and I have already agreed that we could save a lot of money, if just on the calls we make to each other several times a week. The part that’s more difficult is the house buying. I’m in talks with a broker and a realtor and hope to buy a two-bedroom place by the end of June.
I haven’t lived with anyone for more than a few months in the past four years, so it’s a little intense to think that someone else will know that I sometimes secretly watch Hot in Cleveland, or will listen to me practice guitar while I’m still learning. But I also like knowing that I picked this person, that she will love keeping the dog I plan to get for company, and that we can share a CSA box. She’s also on board to call 911 if I don’t return from dates.
I’m not sure why this seems less invasive than someone staring into my peephole. After all, my new roommate will not only hear me being weird, she’ll see it and smell it, too. It’s choice, for one thing, and it’s also time. At my birthday about a week ago, the first two friends to show up were people I had known for over fifteen years apiece. If past behavior is any indicator of future performance, it’s likely we will stay friends for another fifteen.
Perhaps it’s not the pushing of intimacy from a stranger that scares me so much as transience. When I see his sad, hollow eyes staring at me from across the hall, I wonder if that’s where I will be when I’m his age: alone, terrifying and terrified.
H. V. Cramond, Staff Blogger