Everyone always asks me if I feel safe in my building. It is an artists’ residence that is also a bit of a halfway house. I think it’s an amazing thing in this city. It allows artists to have cheap rent and rooms to themselves while pursuing dreams. And it allows previously homeless to begin new lives with roofs over their heads.
And then there are the nut jobs.
There is this one man on my floor who drives me batshit insane. He’s a total creep. He appears to be from Queens with some sort of Italian heritage. He must have some sort of nasal condition because he speaks directly through his nose. So imagine a large Italian man with a nasally Queens accent walking your way and telling you how cute you are. This was my first experience with him. After being able to sneak right past him for the first few times we had walked in the same hall, at last I was stuck in a conversation with him. He asked me if I was an actress because I was too cute not to be. Attempting to be polite, I told him I was. He gave me his card and said that he manages young actresses. Out of curiosity, I checked out his web site. Or, as some people call it: his myspace page. His top 20 friends were scantily-clad well-endowed young girls. Seriously. Yeah. Needless to say, I decided he would not be someone to work with. Or talk to. So I have done my best to politely say hello but keep a safe distance when I can hear him making his way down the hall. He’s a heavy breather with a bum leg so I have to give him a nice head start.
But the politeness has come to an end over the past 6 months or so, when I have began saying things like, “Could you please shut your door when you cook bacon? I can hear the bacon sizzling in my room. Also my room smells like bacon.” And he gets annoyed and tells me he has to keep the door open so the fire alarm doesn’t go off. Perhaps you could cook less bacon, or open a window, or not be an asshole?
Or when he is smoking his cigarettes with the door open. “Would you mind closing your door? The entire hallway smells like cigarettes.” Grumble grumble grumble. Obviously, he needs to air out his room! So instead of just his room smelling like cigarettes, everyone’s can!
Lately I have had the pleasure of hearing him tell jokes to his buddies on the phone. They generally involve the use of phrases like “eat my dick” (forgive me, gentle readers) or discussing the merits of his “balls.” I have overlooked this. I have let this slide. I have just stayed in my room and turned up the music.
His laugh grates at my soul.
Take the most nasally sound you can imagine and mix that with nails on a chalkboard. Top it with some real perviness, and bam! That’s his laugh.
Daily, I hear him laugh.
He has made it a habit of leaving his door open 24/7, as if we are in a dormitory and anyone can just stop in and say hello.
But we are not in a dorm. We are in an apartment building in New York City. It is a special, dysfunctional place, but can we all just pretend that it is normal, for a little while?
So tonight I was in bed pretty early as I have a 5:30 call at my catering gig in the morning. But all I could hear was him in a yelling contest over the phone with his friend. Now, they say you should not get in between two dogs who are fighting. You will get bit. But as I was laying there attempting to visualize my next sunny, spacious apartment surrounded by conscious human beings, he was metaphorically barging in, swearing. So I got up, put on my glasses and a sweatshirt, and walked a couple doors down.
BANG BANG BANG
“Shut your door while you are yelling on the phone. The entire floor can hear you.” I said.
His reply: “I’m in no fucking mood to deal with you! Mind your own fucking business. Do I ever come pounding on your door?” SLAM.
Well, perhaps I am at fault for trying to reason with an insane person who is in the middle of an insane dogfight with some other lovely human being. But as I was laying there I just thought: I can either sit here and hope he will shut up, or go speak up for myself and all the other tenants who are afraid to. He lives next door to a blind lady and then there’s the guy across my apartment who I’ve seen leave his room a total of 5 times over 4 years. So that guy is definitely not going to speak up. I know everyone else is getting to listen to his conversation. We shouldn’t have to. Yes, this is New York. Yes, this is a ridiculous crazy building, but I don’t want to hear a swearing match between assholes at midnight. Maybe once in a blue moon, I get that. But he is a bonafide jerk no matter what the moon is.
The downside is, I feel slightly frightened. I am a woman. I am a young woman. I do have a sturdy chain on my door, but after getting yelled at, I did feel scared. I hate that!
Just Saturday I was hanging out with my cousin Brooksie (The snow globe shaker!) and I was telling her how I didn’t think I should move. I want to, but I feel afraid. It’s cheap, I have my own space, it is in the middle of Manhattan. But I’m not happy here anymore. I don’t want to live around nut jobs. (In New York, they are everywhere, but this is the extreme concentrated version. They gather in the lobby and stare. Sure, some are happy in their our worlds. Others are heebie jeebie givers.) Those mean “shoulds” will get you every time! She caught me with my “should” and encouraged me to start looking at new places and new opportunities. It is okay to pay a little more for a better living situation. Oh yeah! It is, isn’t it!
So that has just opened my mindset to the possibility of not living in a nut house, and I am just so excited and pleased at the thought.
Til then, I am happy to have high security in this building. And cameras on every floor. I will probably not get much sleep tonight. At this point, it’s a lost cause. But, I am giving myself credit for not just laying in bed annoyed. I can still hear his tv right now, but I can’t hear his nasally laugh or his nasally arguing. You gotta celebrate the little successes.
