Tuesday, February 24, 1998
Obnoxious neighbors make life a torment
HABITS: Every antic from spitting to karaoke wears away at
precarious sanity
I¹ve tried to hold myself back from writing this column for
months now, but I can¹t handle it anymore. I have to do it. I
have to tell everyone at UCLA, in Westwood, and in the world, about
the baboons who live beneath me.
I can only hope in my heart that some of you out there can
relate to this most obnoxious and troubling problem.
My humble apartment is nothing special. It may be a little
bigger than yours, but only because we pay too much money. In a
just world, we would actually get paid for living here. Why?
Because only four feet below me, even as I sit here at this very
moment typing on my computer, reside the most barbaric of men.
I never realized how bad it was until I was once rudely awakened
at 8:30 a.m., not by deafening garbage trucks but by my own bed
thumping. At first I got excited  had some exotic man come
into my room during the night? Was my roommate knocking on the
living room wall with homemade pancakes for breakfast? Was I in
Vegas on a vibrating bed? Unfortunately, no.
It was the jerks downstairs playing their music so loud that my
bed jiggled with every bass boom. I remember wondering how this
early wake-up call could occur in a college apartment complex. Even
the guys in ³Animal House² didn¹t get up that early
unless they were still awake from the night before. Needless to
say, that was the end of my night¹s sleep.
But the music is the least of it. Everyone and their mom has had
awful neighbors with loud music. My baboons, however, win the prize
for most annoying behavior to compliment their loud music. Their
most recent project involves loud hammering into the ceiling. Pray,
do tell, what could they possibly be hammering into the ceiling? A
basketball hoop? I wouldn¹t be surprised. I know they are
well-equipped with basketball paraphernalia because they dribble on
the balcony and bounce balls off the walls. Thump. Thump. My life
is the ³Tell-Tale Heart.²
I think a lot of this stems from male group dynamics. When you
put a bunch of guys together, you end up with a bunch of idiots.
Cackling like wild hyenas at all hours of the day and night, these
guys are ridiculous. They are boys trapped in men¹s bodies.
And they are loud. In short, they are the most inconsiderate people
I have ever encountered.
Or are they? Perhaps you have actually had worse neighbors
during your share of time on this earth. So do me a favor; shed
some light on why people continue to act this way  what
possesses them to do so? Are they that oblivious to the others that
live around them? Do they know I know their intimate secrets and
daily routines? Do they even care?
In a sick way, I feel sort of bad for the guys. They stand out
on their balcony and call their girlfriends and sisters who come to
visit ³stupid bitches² as they try to parallel park. They
will eventually drop dead of emphysema from the number of
cigarettes they smoke. They¹ll be bankrupt when I sue them for
the hole in my throat from their secondhand smoke that wafts
through my open window.
Most pitiful, however, is their possession of one of the worst
habits known to man. And yes, equal-opportunists, I mean man,
because only men do it: spitting. Not
I-have-a-piece-of-carpet-fuzz-in-my-mouth-that-I-can¹t-get-hold-of
spitting, but abhorrent, snotty, phlegmy, slobbering spitting. You
can¹t believe I am writing about this? Me neither. But I am so
inspired by this act of grossness that I must unleash my
³phlegming² fury.
They spit for hours from their balcony. I swear they¹re out
there all the time, right under my window. Probably because
it¹s the most manly part of their apartment  like kings
on a throne they keep close watch over their domain. As the
testosterone rushes through their mighty bodies, they stand tall,
observe wisely, scratch their crotches, and spit over the rail. Not
only can I hear them pull the snot up into their throats and hurl
it out, but I also have the pleasure of hearing their spit wads
splat onto the cement below. Ahh … a delightful sound to liven up
the dinner hour.
Why, men, must you do this? Do you have overproductive phlegm
glands?
Please, let me buy you a doctor¹s appointment! Nervous
habit? Get therapy! Obeying an evolutionary desire to spread your
DNA to reproduce? Give me a break!
Whether it¹s an ejaculation complex or a cowboy fantasy
involving a spittoon, it¹s atrocious.
When all is said and spat, however, the guys beneath me have
their cool elements. Some nights when I get especially lucky, they
will break out their karaoke set. When they¹re drunk,
it¹s even more of a treat. They sing and rap like
professionals; once I thought Snoop was downstairs! I get all
tingly when they deep throat the microphone and their scratchy
upper lips brush against it, as they scream ³Yo yo yo One two,
three four five f You.² My talented baboons.
I don¹t know what to do about this inconvenience in my
life. I once put a friendly anonymous note on their door. They
never turned the music down so I assume they spit in the note and
gave it to one of their respected women friends as a
Valentine¹s Day present.
So now what? Dropping a bomb into their living room is an
option, but I tend to be nonviolent. So I sit and simmer. Instead
of studying I pound my heels into the floor to send them a sign.
And I write columns to release my aggression. Will they know that I
refer to them? Nah … you can¹t teach a baboon to
read.Pfeffer has not exaggerated one word of this for dramatic
purposes. E-mail her at [email protected].