Vacancy

Here in the city, living as we do in cubicles-- stacked space, with shared walls or ceilings... it is hard to establish good fences-- physically or metaphorically.  The behavior and culture of our neighbors affects us more than we would like.  The noise-- their habits, their courtesy or lack thereof, their comings and goings and those of their friends-- well, we often know more than we want, and vice versa.  While the pandemic has silenced parties and gatherings for the most part, there is still a sort of presence adjacent or upstairs.  I hear my neighbors exercise, occasionally cough... argue....  In March/April it was as though a mute had been placed on everything.  Many people left the city for safer space in the country.  Some moved out permanently.  The nightly 7 PM noisemaking for essential workers was an event-- a relief, for those of us who are accustomed to a certain level of sound.

I have written a poem about my very first apartment, where through the ceiling I heard violent, hysterical arguments-- pleading... tears and weeping... it was disturbing, and affected my belief in my own relationship, although the couple upstairs seemed meek and innocuous when they emerged from the elevator.   My second apartment-- the studio where I relished my party years... shared a wall with a strange man who smoked and watched a gigantic television 24/7.  Though he had a balcony he literally never stepped out.  He'd bang on my door when I played music too loud... and considering the size of his television speakers, he had a flawed case for complaint.  He bullied me a little-- would look behind me to see what was going on.  Otherwise we never spoke.  One night when he knocked, I had some visiting members of Steel Pulse there-- a reggae band from the UK.  With their dreads and innovative hairstyles, they turned heads on the street, even in the 1980's.  Two of them who  were tall and buff and shirtless knocked back at him.  'You have a problem, man?' they asked, calmly but firmly in their West Indian accents.  'Because if you have a problem you need to take it up with me.  You have a problem?'  That cured.  He never knocked again.  One evening when the superintendent was inspecting something, I looked in.  The whole apartment was like a Holiday Inn room-- with two empty chairs, a coffee table... not a single accessory besides a giant ashtray, the TV and these curtains filthy with old stale smoke stains.  I'm sure he is still there, although undoubtedly forced to take his cigarette breaks on the street.  

My current home for two decades has been a haven for me.  Maybe seven years ago my downstairs neighbors sold their gigantic apartment to a Brazilian family.  They were kind and friendly-- until the day they closed on their home.  I had two friends over-- a Sunday afternoon before Christmas... we were doing a vocal rehearsal-- not usual for me.  Anyway, the husband burst in and announced he could hear us.  As though he and his three kids and dog didn't make a sound.   This felt like an invasion.  I'm an adult-- I own my home, have been here for twenty plus years without an issue.  Of course we are aware of one another-- children practicing squeaky violins, opera singers, parties... happiness... I am not the person who plays in my apartment--- yes, a little acoustic guitar but my professional musician friends had gigs-- we don't entertain in our homes.  It was a rare guest who sat down at my keyboard and proceeded to belt out a song.  Not in my 'wheelhouse', they say.  But I felt ambivalent.  I was technically within rights, but also loath to create in-house tension. 

Anyway, the Brazilians pushed and pressured-- as though there was an agenda-- they needed renovations because of their upstairs neighbor?  It was unclear.   One day the wife came upstairs screaming about water in her apartment-- no pipes above theirs in mine; the damage was from a higher point, but I was blamed and also had to allow the plumbers to demolish my walls to access the issues.  She stopped speaking to me and made a sort of pout whenever we had to pass in the hallway.  I became an untouchable.  She forced her husband to do all the calling and whining.  Not to mention their son had a set of electric drums.  They were very noisy people.  Did I complain about her high-pitched screaming, the children's lack of musical ability, her husband's hallway calls to his broker in Brazilian?  I did not.   

At a point they moved out and a crew of construction workers moved in.  For two years, well beyond all permits and allowances, they drilled and hammered-- caused my apartment to be covered in plastic protection, spread dust and debris everywhere-- damaged walls, electrical... not to mention ear-splitting noise.  Me, a day sleeper... was put into a state of perpetual exhaustion.  It was a nightmare.  Even my building management read me my legal rights.  I have never been interested in money, but they eventually sent a professional crew in to thoroughly clean everything-- every book was removed and replaced-- every cd, every album.  It was painful to witness, and like a shuffled deck of cards, nothing has been quite right.  But I settled in. Their occasional complaints were addressed to the super.  They spent summers in the Hamptons so there were periods of peace for me.  I prayed they would move.  After five years they listed the apartment for some obscene amount.  I prayed more... then the pandemic came.  Worst of all, they hired a cook.  Despite my lingering covid-anosmia, it was like a Brazilian garlic cloud hung in my closets, exhaled from my clothing.  Out of some twisted sense of dignity, I refused to complain.  

When the New York Times article came out (which was mistaken for my obituary), my other neighbors circulated this around the building.  The Brazilian wife gave me a token little greeting one day... as though my Ivy League pedigree had shamed her into some kind of apology.  Not exactly...  and besides, they went to the Hamptons for the warm months.  You can play your bass, she said to me, as though giving me an award, and as though I tormented them with amplifiers and decibels (I do not).  

Last week-- just like that-- they left.  Like a swarm of bees, or locusts.  Done.  For a day there were loud sounds, a huge moving truck, and then silence.  Apparently they've gone to Miami where hopefully they will have a huge tract and no neighbors.  I've grown so used to the annoyance of their hostile presence that I feel anxious about who or what will replace them.  It warned me, in a way-- took the safety factor of my home, left me wondering when someone would ring or phone or complain even though the sounds that bothered them were probably not even mine.  I began to pity them-- their shoddy renovation, their attempt to customize their home-- the dearth of culture-- books, art, among the generic furnishings.  Their petty priorities.  

There are motors in the alleyways, exhaust fans and laundry equipment... like occasional tooth pain or a headache, most noise subsides, recedes.   People who are sensitive this way do not belong in a city-- in a communal living situation where we share air currents and sound waves-- where we breathe and exhale in unison.  Some nights when I was awake writing in silence on my laptop I could swear I heard her husband snoring.  These intimacies are not just disturbing but embarrassing.  TMI.  

Five years ago I would have been elated to see them go.  I have some affection for most all my neighbors but these were like constant thorns.  Because of the pandemic, we have learned to trust one another less-- to distance ourselves... we fear one another.  We can lock our doors, but we cannot keep the virus threat outside.  We sleep with anxiety and wonder when and if we will return to life as it was.  I play occasionally-- I write... I read... but I don't feel the same exhilaration of music, the same camaraderie, the same assumptions.  I am quiet.  I can't blame my downstairs neighbors for taking away my sense of security- of safety and insulation... because they have left behind another kind of emptiness.  Maybe even they could not bear the silence-- the absence.  

Last night I woke up and smelled the ghost of their cooking-- that Brazilian stew or meaty pong that stayed around long after meals were done.  The windows are quite dark.  In the middle of these nights when I miss things and people especially, could it be that I count their narcissistic family among the absences?  I never really got an apology; not in the vocabulary of such people.  I will get over it, will recover from the low-level abuse and discomfort of bad neighboritis.  I doubt they will read this, but they were part of my life and I bid them despedida.