The ladies next door: double trouble

If I could turn back time.

My intention was to publish this entry when it occurred, which was exactly that day after I wrote about a random domestic dispute that paled in comparison to the neighbors I used to have. Obviously, I have a problem with sequential story telling, because here we are, nearly 3 months later and I’m about to pick up where I left off…

~ ~ ~ T  I  M E ~ ~ ~ T R A V E L I N G ~ ~ ~

At two o’clock this morning, as I was shutting down my laptop, content with the blog I had just completed about the stupid incident involving my next door neighbor, when it happened. A woman’s shadow appeared through my blinds. I had just published, so there was no way she had read my blog where I accuse her grandmother of doing the nasty with her now ex-boyfriend.

The shadow paced back and forth in front of my window.

I started to get nervous. Was this girl going to take a bat to my window? Should I enact my emergency evacuation drill, where I push The Librarian off the bed, grab the dog and roll onto to the bedroom floor?

Suddenly, a voice boomed out of the shadow. A voice that wasn’t my neighbor’s. It was another woman who began another obscenity-laden (like the ex-boyfriend’s from the day before)  phone conversation that was unbearably loud.

“Where the fuck are you? I’m here in front of your house. Are you fucking kidding me? I have to work tomorrow! How can you do this to me?”

The phone conversation went on for a few more minutes before she hung up and turned her attention and full lung capacity to the friend that accompanied her on this venture. Two shadows now stood outside my bedroom window, laughing, slurring and talking about the things that only drunk people can understand.

Half of me wanted to get up, open my window and scream, “Shut the fuck up!” Similar to the way Oscar the Grouch would if Sesame Street would not censor him so strictly. The other half wanted to hear more.

I sat up in bed, festering in anger, imagining how mad I would’ve been if this hoochie dissertation disturbed my slumber. When, all of a sudden, a pair of blood-shot eyes stare up at me. They were those The Librarian, who had in fact been waken by the cackle.

The first words out of her drool stained mouth were, “Is that coming from outside?”

I responded in the affirmative and quickly jumped out of bed. I opened a drawer to find appropriate clothing, but before I could get a t-shirt over my head, she was up and headed for the door. I went to stop her, as she was wearing a very thin tank top without a bra and happy bunny pajama pants, which we all know is no respectable attire when you have to go out there and ask someone to shut their pie hole. But, she stopped me in my tracks with:

“Stay! You don’t know how to talk to people.”

I sat stunned on the edge of the bed. Speechless. I don’t know how to talk to people? My entire career is based on talking to people.

She unlocked the door and busted out of the apartment. I watched the third shadow join the other two from the safety of my bedroom. In shadow form, The Librarian looked like a member of Whitesnake – all hair, all the time.

Then a voice emerged from the shadows. The voice of the drunk, loud mouth. She sounded demur and refined.

“Oh my God, did I wake you?”

“Yeap,” responded Sammy Hagar.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, we’ll keep it down.”

“Please,” said Slash.

And with that, the third shadow turned around and walked back into the apartment.

“What happened? You didn’t say more than two words?” I demanded, still struggling with only half a t-shirt over my head.

“I walked out there and put my finger over my mouth.”

The LIbrarian in shadow form at 2am.

The ladies next door

Photo from

It may seem as if I obsess over my neighbors. Sure, I’ve dedicated two three-part series to my former neighbors (see The guy downstairs and Across from the guy downstairs). But that was when I lived in Doral and was at home all day. I had no other source of inspiration, but the suspicious, luxury sedan driving Neanderthal and the woman with four kids and as many hundred pounds that led me to file a complaint with the department of children and families.

Since then I’ve moved and moved on. I live above the hustle and bustle of Main Street. The smell of ribs from the Tony Roma’s goes well with the loud music blasting out of Johnny Rockets. From Friday to Sunday, the rush of people trying to make the ten o’clock movie blends with the drunkards leaving the Ale House and the teenagers on a sugar high from Cold Stone. It is so loud that I never hear my neighbors, let alone see them.

Until two days ago.

Upon our return from a trip to the grocery store, we ascended up the stairs with our environmentally friendly canvas bags. As we got closer to the door I heard an angry voice. A young man’s voice. It immediately reminded me of the way one of those Doral twin boys would stand in the middle of his backyard and scream obscenities at his baby momma through his cell phone. For a moment I thought they had found me. Or worse, they had moved in.

As I walked closer, I noticed the eyeball of a neighbor peering from behind her window blinds. The eye moved ferociously to find something, but all she caught was my post-traumatic-stress-of-having-bad-neighbors-syndrome-face on the other side. I shrugged my shoulders at the eyeball, as if to say that I had no idea where it was coming from.

I turned a corner to find another neighbor poking his head out from his front door. Literally, it was just his head. No feet, no hands, no torso. I imagined it was because he was either naked or wearing a tacky house coat – which are the same reasons I sometimes choose to guillotine my neck between the door and the frame.

Before I could ask the head what the hell was going on, my peripheral caught the owner of the voice. Baseball hat to the side, some sort of shirt promoting a sports team, large shorts and tube socks that almost met on his legs and sneakers, and a cell phone up to his still pimply face. The kid’s rant was directed toward the apartment next to mine where a young woman and her grandmother reside.

“Open the door. Look at me. Let’s talk. This is fucked up. People are staring.”

We ran into our apartment and locked the door.

He continued to beg and plead, while yelling, to get into the apartment of the ladies next door. He banged on the door. He banged on the window. And then he said, “I’m not fucking leaving, ever.”

And then I heard a door close. Seconds later, I heard another open and quickly close. Followed by hurried footsteps. And then voices asking the young man a series of polite, yet stern questions. It was the eyeball and the head. So, I opened my door. A police officer was making his way down the hall. I waited to see if there was a camera crew behind him before deciding whether or not to put on a little lipstick.

Regardless, I wouldn’t have needed the lipstick. I didn’t have a speaking role in this show. I played the part of the bystander, arms crossed, eye-brow raised woman standing behind the police officer.

“I’m sorry son. You can’t be here. You have to go now.”

The guy left. Quietly. Heart-broken.

The officer told us that if he came back to just run downstairs and flag him down, as he was going to be patrolling the Victoria’s Secret. The eyeball, the head and I exchanged smiles and returned to our apartments.

The young man never returned. And all is well again in Hialeah’s Disney World.

How anti-climactic. This isn’t the neighbor raucous I’m accustomed to.

Instead, I’m going to pretend the guy, while courting his age-equivalent girlfriend, inadvertently fell in love with the grandmother. The girlfriend grew suspicious of them when her grandmother kept stealing her thongs and the boyfriend insisted she wear a house coat. Rotten with guilt and injuries to her prosthetic hip, the grandmother came clean with her grand-daughter. The young woman had no choice but to break up with her boyfriend over the phone and proceed to tweet about it. She is working on repairing the relationship with her grandmother, although she has searched the term chloroform 300 times over the past 24 hours.

Across from the guy downstairs: Scream 3

“(1)Do you know of any hospitals around here? In Doral? (2)I’ve called all the Hospitals in Hialeah and he’s not in any of them. (3)My son was hit by a car in Hialeah. You know my son? The one with all the tattoos? (4)He was walking home from his uncle’s house. Do you know where the KFC is? He was hit there. (5)His cousin called me to tell me. (6)You know I don’t drive. (7)I took his phone away because he was skipping school and now I can’t call him.”

I thought about many things while the tuba lady played her sad song to my partner, who was fittingly standing on a balcony during the loud serenade. I thought about yelling again. I thought about walking out there. I thought about how I would handle it if Iris would try to convince me to help this woman. But none of that would be necessary. Apparently, Iris couldn’t run back in the house fast enough. I believe her response was, “Oh. Wow. No, there are no hospitals here. Good luck with that.” And by the time she actually said, “Good luck with that,” she was already inside the apartment, locking the sliding glass door behind her.

I was really glad to see her give me the, what-the-hell-just-happened look.

What happened was, quite simply, that she was almost a victim of this woman’s bullshit. It was all a blatant lie. Probably in the hopes to get a ride somewhere. If you don’t want to believe that, well, then the son had his cousin lie to his mother so he could disappear for a few days and impregnate some more underage girls. But, someone was lying because the story was a complete fabrication and here’s why:

1. There are no hospitals in Doral. Baptist Hospital has an urgent care center and so does Miami Children’s. Urgent care centers do not accept ambulances, especially if they are transporting trauma patients. But why should she know where the local hospitals are? She’s just a mom and a caregiver for a special needs child.

2. There are two hospitals in Hialeah with somewhat decent emergency rooms. So, she called all two hospitals in Hialeah, but not the number one trauma hospital internationally known as Jackson Memorial Hospital. I mean, it’s just her son.

3. The next morning I checked the newspaper. I checked online. I checked everywhere. There was no such accident reported in Hialeah. And yes, we know your son. He’s the reason we don’t open our front door after 11:00 at night.

4. By car, it takes about 12 minutes, using the Palmetto Expressway, to get to that KFC. On foot it must take at least two hours.  Can’t his uncle drop him off? Can’t he take the bus?

5. If his cousin was bright enough to call about the catastrophic accident, couldn’t that same cousin find out what hospital he was going to? Also, wouldn’t the cousin also inform his own father, who happens to be the victim’s uncle and your brother of the occurence? Can’t you call your brother? Your son was just at his house.

6. Ding, ding, ding!

7. Well, if he’s unconscious, it doesn’t matter. I can only imagine that if he was conscious he would’ve asked to borrow someone’s phone to call you. If he wanted to. But, I’m thinking he doesn’t want to talk to you – just like we don’t.

The next morning I received a phone call from the neighbor across from me. You know the one that didn’t open the door. He, of course, heard everything and was calling to make sure we knew that the story she told was total crap. I told him not to worry. He told me that he’s had it with those people. That he can’t take the screaming  anymore. So, he’s decided to get out, even if it costs him to foreclose, but he has to move his family out of there.

Those poor people are right on top of the screaming. All day and all night. If I can hear it my apartment, they must hear it in high definition.

All this made me think that the guy downstairs must really regret having his “investment” property across from the Scream family. Ah, see, there is justice.

This concludes the three-part series on the neighbors that live across the guy downstairs. Now, don’t you wish you lived here?