Monday 20 February 2012

Coming To The Party?


            Living downstairs in a duplex has very few perks.   As a matter of fact, the only bonus I can think of is that you are the first one to know if there is a flood.  However, I started to notice that  living downstairs seemed to get me invited to quite a few parties upstairs.  I thought it was my charming charisma and personality at first or maybe because I drink fancy beer and usually bring a 12 pack but, either way, I was definitely and often getting invited to the Upstairs Parties.
            Upon arriving to one of these shindigs, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know anybody.  It was my neighbour’s friends but I did notice that my hostess (who will hereafter be referred to as Neighbouress) didn’t introduce me to anyone and I always felt a little weird introducing myself as the guy who lives in the basement.  After about 4 or 5 beers I’d get tired and remember that I still had to work in the morning and I’d walk around looking for Neighbouress to thank her for the invite, but she was often never to be found.
            Trying to get out in the morning was a pain in the ass because I’d be blocked in and have to wake people up to get out of the drive.  The worst part was that there was no Timmie’s that morning because I’d get fired if I’d show up late for work. 
            Next Friday would be more of the same.  When I got home from work my parking spot was already taken by somebody.
            “Hey, there’s a small get-together tonight; you should come,” Neighbouress would say and then run back upstairs without giving me a chance to answer.
            Maybe three or four beers and I’d be tired of Buckcherry and Lil' Wayne and I’d head back downstairs.  My old radio could never drown out their music, so I would put in some construction earplugs and try to get some sleep.  Seeing as my spot had been taken the night before I had no trouble getting out but I was a little grumpy getting a $15 ticket for street parking after 10pm. Later arriving home I’d laugh when there was still a car or two in the driveway, people who hadn’t sobered up enough to make it home yet.
            This would go on 3 times a month or so and it would be the same story: you're invited, never noticed, can’t sleep, parking ticket, and late for work.
            Finally I had to put an end to this insanity. I called McLandlord to ask for help.  After explaining the situation he told me that “e'rey body 'as the right to enjoy thare own time in peace and quiet” and that he would “'av a wee word with de lass”.
            It wouldn’t have been an hour before McLandlord called back and — with that fiery temper that only the Irish get worked up to — let me know that “The nex' time det ye' feel like complain’n don’t facken whine tuh me wit chore arrogant self-rightchosness, and if ye' don’t like the party, dan don’t facken go to 'em!”
             Well, at least I know why I kept getting invited to the parties.  It seemed as though if you go to a party you waive the right to complain about the noise.  I figure Neighbouress knew exactly how to get what she wanted and she sure knew handle guys like me.  For the rest of her tenancy, I never got invited back to a party (six of them) and I never dared complain about it again.

Monday 13 February 2012

Can I Borrow A...

As the fighting/sex sessions might have suggested, the upstairs tenants never really got around to settling in and moved out just months after they first showed up. Truck pulls out, new truck pulls in: Welcome New Upstairs-Neighbours.  They were a young couple, early 30s at the most, no kids of their own yet.  He was a mechanic or a delivery truck driver or something, and she ran a daycare from the upstairs apartment.  There were always kids running around in the daytime but they were usually gone by 6 pm.  Even if one stayed late, what's the pitter patter of a  30 lb kid compared to the slightly overweight ex-neighbours and their constant fighting and screwing.

One bitterly cold night I notice that there was an extra car in the shared drive, forcing me to park my half-ton way over at the edge. No big deal really, until I step out and get snow in the tops of my work boots.  A little grumpy, I stomped down the shared stairs and slammed the door to my apartment.  After dressing down and pouring a drink I heard a knock at my door.  Crap. They've heard my hissy-fit and I figure they are now coming down to apologize.   I put my drink out of sight and answer the door.

“Hi” she says.

“Hi” I say.

“…”

You know when someone is supposed to say the next thing?  She came down to talk to me and just stands there with a stupid grin on her face.  I’m really in no humour for this guessing game.

“Do you want something?” I asked in that sort of way that would let her know that I’m a little short on patience.

“I just thought that you should know that my sister is visiting and she just had a baby the other day.”

Great, I thought. You’re here to either hook me up with a single mom or you are really clueless about appropriate small talk.
“Wonderful, thanks for the heads up.” What else do you say?

“Actually, my sister just took her first poop after the birthing; she has been constipated for 2 days.”

Oh my God. 

“I’m so happy for you”, now piss off!  Holy frig, where’s my drink?

“I don’t mean to bother you but she plugged the toilet, can we borrow your plunger?”

At this time, I remembered back to when I first viewed the apartment.  McLandlord opened the door to the bathroom and proudly boasted that these brand new American Standard toilets were a marvel of engineering and that “this jack can flush the cobbler’s finest!” (translation: this toilet can flush a shoe).  If this poop is tougher than a shoe then I’m not losing my good plunger in this battle.

“I’m sorry but I don’t have a plunger,” I lied, “Maybe there’s one at the corner store that you can buy?”

“Oh no,” she says “It’s too cold, I don’t want to walk down there. Do you have a large wooden soup spoon that we could borrow to try and break up the poop?”

Now, I know what you are thinking.  There’s no way I’m telling the truth.  Nobody could be this absurd. Nobody could ask to BORROW a wooden spoon with the intent to RETURN it after using it to BREAK UP A TURD!  Well, believe it or not, that’s what happened.  At this point in the conversation, with my drink watered down from the ice and no food in my belly, I just shut the door, locked it, and cranked up that old radio.  All I could think was ‘God, please let these people move out soon.’

Monday 6 February 2012

Love Thy Neighbour?


You might surmise that it did not take me long to set my room up.  By which I mean I took my clothes out of my dufflebag and piled them on the floor of my closet.  The bed was all set up and I had 2 milk crates beside it to put my my clock and a couple of books on.  The room was actually pretty big and had a semi-ensuite to the bathroom, a large window overlooking the empty sidelot, and a ceiling fan that looked like it came of a W.W.2 aeroplane. I was later reminded that the upstairs unit has the exact same layout, except that they had an extra bedroom.
I guess I'd been in for two weeks or so when I noticed that McLandlord had started showing the upstairs apartment.   It didn't take a whole lot of investigation to figure it out because the sound proofing was... kinda crappy. However, I assumed that I was just being picky and that I should try and ignore it.

I can't remember if it was later that month or the next but a nice family of 4 that had viewed the apartment moved in.  They seemed like good, down-to-earth people. I helped the father move in some of the heavy stuff to start a neighbourly bond. He let me put my barbeque on his deck and we would take turns buying the propane. We'd even have a couple beers after work on Fridays. We generally we got along really great and I considered myself lucky to get along with my neighbours.  Except... the sound proofing.

I didn't mind the stomping around (they were a little overweight) or even that the TV always had Ellen or Oprah on just a little too loud.  What I did mind was the 45 minute long crazy-arguing and shouting that always ended in a rousing make-up-sex marathon that lasted for (what seemed like) hours!

Let me tell you, it doesn't matter how loud you turn up the radio or TV; when that ceiling fan, 6 feet from your head started swaying to the Barry White... let's just say I really appreciated the semi en-suite for the quick access to the toilet.

What to do? I was too embarrassed to confront them about it.  I couldn't turn my radio up any louder (which I already knew could not contend with the sexing).  I did what I thought was a perfect course of action: I'd call McLandlord. He'd know what to do.

"Umm... sorry to b-bug you, McLandlord, but I can listen to the folks upstairs have sex. Sometimes for hours."

"Aaughh!" he coughed with disgust. "Sweet Jesus, me ladd! Have ya no shame? By Christ, let the lass av at er husband in peace!"

"But, but that's not what I..."

"Stop right thare, I know whach yar gettin at, an let me tell ya right new, she's no interest in a skinny limey like yew."  Click.

Well if things weren't bad enough, McLandlord thinks I'm some sort of British pervert. I'm not British! (oh, or a pervert)  Eventually, I was driven out of my sweet master bedroom with a view and semi en-suite and re-setup in the smaller, closetless second bedroom which had a window facing the parking lot so that when anyone came home late, their headlights would shine right into my face.  Love thy neighbour anyone?