Howdy, Neighbors!

We've tried this approach

Ask me how many people have lived next door and my mind comes up vacant. I honestly don’t know. I must search through scrambled mental files dating back nearly ten years. I must count all the sleepless nights I’ve endured, courtesy of the various occupants inclined to talk at the top of their lungs in the middle of the night, some in English, some in foreign languages.


For the past six months, the house has sat blissfully vacant, after the nameless dudes from Texas, all five or six of them, we were never sure, moved out. Guys in their mid-20s, born to party, they filled up U-hauls and pick-up trucks and whatever didn’t fit, they left behind. Old mattresses, a brownish sofa, broken office chairs and a funky desk covered the driveway, lowering property values even further, till hubby called the city to take it away.

Each time that strange little house next door empties out, hubby and I go through our customary phase of jubilation. “They’re gone! They’re gone! Hurray!” We dance around, all giddy, and break open the bubbly. Typically, this stage of euphoria lasts no more than a week, and leads to a period of dread, obsession and reckless what-iffing: What if the next ones are worse?

When we first moved in, the house next door was an assistant-living facility. The caregivers sat outside all night, every night. We tried talking to them. We wrote them notes. We tried to track down the owners. We spent a lot of time googling “how to report elder abuse.” Then the big Orthodox family moved in, nine or ten strong, we were never sure. Not a partier in the bunch. During the High Holidays, they showed up at our door with offerings of wine and nuts and Shabbat candles. When the moving truck pulled up, I was distraught.

“You’re going?” I asked the husband. He nodded. “Why? What happened?” He shrugged. “There was an incident.” “An incident? Where?” I asked. “At Chabad,” he said. What could’ve possibly happened at Chabad? I was dying to know, but he wasn’t forthcoming. They put the house up for sale, but couldn’t sell it.
Bring on the renters. For two weeks, they rented it, illegally, to a Jewish girls’ camp. We heard a lot of Israeli folk singing at all hours. We nearly lost our minds.

There was jubilation when camp ended. There was panic when the Texans moved in. And then, there was acceptance. Five guys. Maybe six. There was nothing we could do, other than suffer and kvetch. When they moved out after a year, I sent up a prayer. I selfishly asked God to cross the following types of future renters off the list:  Moaners, screamers, ranters. Shower singers, hallway yodelers, all-round yelpers. Video gamers, crazed cursers, TV yellers. Gigglers, hysterics, criers. Sneezers, coughers, whiners. Beer drinkers, wine drinkers, margarita drinkers. Soccer fans, football fans, baseball fans. Basketball fans, hockey fans, golf fans. Drummers, electric guitarists, kazoo players. Whistlers, gum-snappers, slurpers.  We have all of the above living in our house.  That's enough for one block.

One week ago, my prayer came back.  Return to sender.  Three new a-holes with out of state license plates moved in, along with a howling German shepard.  One is a backyard smoker.  One is a drummer.  All are late-night partiers.  Last night, they threw a bash in honor of St. Patrick's Day.  At 1 a.m., during the Irish gig portion, hubby and I composed a lively missive, peppered with words like putz, doucebag and attorney.  "Disturbing the peace" cropped out. "Why weren't we invited?" did not. Later today, I plan to slip our little note into a nice basket of fruit and cookies and leave it at their doorstep.  It's important to make the new neighbors feel welcome.