Neighbors

Neighbors, neighbors, neighbors
Have I got neighbors?
Have I got neighbors?
All day and all night.
Rolling Stones, Neighbors, Tattoo You

Neighborhoods of yesteryear embodied the heart of industrialized societies. People considered their neighbors more or less as extended family. Movies portrayed groups gathered after dinner, leisurely sitting on rocking chairs and porch swings, gossiping and viewing the parade of passersby. Heck, if you lived in Mayberry you were truly blessed; you could relax in the presence of Andy strumming on his guitar while Aunt Bea served homemade lemonade along with aromatic, just out of the oven cookies. 

Let’s fast forward to the twenty-first century. After a meal consisting of nuked gourmet cuisine or perhaps something resembling food grabbed via a fast food drive-thru window, Dad parks his butt in his lounge chair channel surfing the night away while mom works hard at her second job as a homemaker. Junior sits in his room playing his favorite video game while Sis does her interacting on Facebook. The front door stays securely locked, along with a state of the art security system. If someone unexpected knocks on the door you look through the peep hole before opening the door, or if technically savvy and willing to shell out the bucks you might keep a camera pointed at the door allowing you to inspect your visitor. This may all seem a bit cliché, but you get the picture.

With that verbiage of background behind me I will now get to the point of my communiqué – my freaking neighbors! For the sake of their anonymity I will refer to them as the Douches.  Don’t misunderstand me; for the most part they are hardworking, friendly, seemingly goodhearted people, however, they are annoying as hell. The foremost cause of my ill feelings toward them is due to our way too close proximity. Viewing my photos you can understand how I am unwillingly thrust into their mostly inane and at times embarrassingly private conversations. The first photo shows my cherished porch. This is where I spend a great amount of time relaxing and unwinding. Unfortunately the closeness of the Douches interupts many peaceful moments (note the railing of the stoop in the foreground). The second photo shows the view outside my bedroom window (taken from my bed.). On this stoop they sit, smoke, drink, and hash out every iota of their seemingly unimaginative lives to the nth degree.

Oh, and did I mention that they love their beer? So far they have not indulged in raucous parties on their premises but rather keep their brew to themselves.

At around 2:30 this morning, shortly after the karaoke debacle up te street began to die down, the inebriated Douches decided to grace their stoop and engage in some barely intelligible banter. Lucky me. I not only can hear them but I catch whiffs of their smokes and sour alcohol reek. Since I had retired for the night it was tantamount to having them in bed with me.

Trust me; their discussion was of no importance. What draws my attention and assaults my sensibilities rather are the actual sounds that their vocal cords emanate. Mrs. Douche delivers her repertoire of words like blasts of a machine gun, very staccato, violence to my ears, while Mr. Douche retorts like a bullfrog - single syllables being the only bits of sound bites he is able to deliver amidst her rapid nonstop delivery. After  what must have been more than one cigarette apiece they noisily entered their apartment, slamming their heavy wooden door as usual. Shortly after that particular “assault” I fell asleep.

Around six a.m.I am awakened by the pitter patter of rainfall punctuated by the rumbling of distant thunder. I luxuriate in this; being able to lie in my bed and be gently lulled back to sleep. This peaceful mood however quickly comes to an abrupt end by the revolting sound of Mr. Douche sitting on his stoop hacking up a luggie.