Neighbors

Work almost always goes well. The question is, will it be as good when I get home?

I live in a 1940's apartment complex that was recently permanent-sided in a dull gray color. There are twenty identical buildings in a circle, and rarely ever enough parking. The newest resident is a commercial trucker, who tends to bring his big 18-wheeler in and park across a whole line of spaces, apparently just to say "hi" to his family and get a nice send-off and some food before he goes on his way to and from work.

Ten people live in my building. They are a mix of retired and early 20-somethings. Even though, at 25, I am a mid-twenty-something, I don't feel as if I fit into any particular category.

I like the older people better. The twentysomethings, at least the ones in my building, seem to be very much into drinking and loud music, and whatever else they feel is dangerous. So, of course that often means seeing the flashing red lights of police cars outside the building. Sometimes I secretly wish to myself that the police would do what I've always hoped for-take them away. At this point I really don't care where they go.

But the bars where they belong should be vertical and not horizontal, like the places where drinks can be purchased.

Three nights ago-early morning actually, at 3:15 a.m.-one of my twenty-something neighbors rang my doorbell. Eleven times. I'm not joking. It woke me from a good, solid, dreamless sleep. My first thought was, "The building is on fire!" as I pulled on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, grabbed my cat, which was the only one of us truly awake at that time, and ran to the front door.