"My Crazy Neighbor"

In the past, we've had a series of mostly Hispanic people move in and move out of the tiny space right behind my apartment during the 9 years I've been living there. They don't stay long, it seems like they use it as a transitory apartment before finding a "real" place, or before they head back home. They've always been really cool people, even when a family of 4 were squeezed in there for a short time. We've been very lucky.

In the apartment in front of mine, my neighbor Laurie lives with her boyfriend Orlando. I love Laurie. I'll have to post a photo of her on here at some point. She's very funny, very kind and also very odd. We live above a laundromat. She has a studio, I have a 2 bedroom and the apartment in back is an even tinier studio. I took this place with my first husband because the rent wasn't bad, the location is great, and they allowed dogs (I had 2 when I moved in - Elvis, my 18 year-old Yorkie, passed away last year). You have to be careful going up the stairs to my apartment, because there has been the occasional "naked Laurie" sighting through the years!

In all honesty, this has been the best apartment I've lived in (and I've lived in MANY). No problems with freaky neighbors who hate dogs, no interfering landlords, nothing. My neighborhood is a nice mix of Italian immigrants, Hispanic immigrants, and the usual white and black mix. It's not a super affluent community, nor is it a really poor one. Behind my neighborhood it's more of a suburban feel with older people living in their houses. It's just perfect for dog walking! Plus it'll be great for the baby.

So about a year ago, the man who'd been living in the back moved out. What moved in was a woman. Probably in her mid-thirties to early-forties. Caucasian. And she had 2 dogs. My first concern was - wow, that's a teeny tiny space for 2 medium sized dogs, but whatever. (Now let me just say this here - she takes care of the dogs, and the dogs are sweet).

She wasn't friendly, and that's okay. This is New York. I prefer you to be standoffish rather than stalkerish. Not a problem. But then Marcellino and I had an argument one night. It ended close to 11PM. A few weeks later I needed to call my landlord about something, and after we discussed whatever it was, my landlord said to me "you know, that woman who moved in behind you called me. She told me you and your husband had a fight, and then told me everything that was said."

I was floored. I was annoyed. Then I was pissed.

"Yeah", I said, "and what did you tell her?"

"I told her you're married! You're supposed to argue, and that I don't want to know about any personal arguments."

"Well, why are you telling me?"

"Because I'd want to know if someone was hearing everything that was said and was repeating it."

So I get off the phone with her, and I am ENRAGED. I don't deal with problems the way my neighbor did. There was NO reason that she couldn't have knocked on our door, or the wall, and asked us to keep it down. She could have said something the next day, or written a note to us if she was so afraid. But she didn't. She sat quietly in her apartment and took it all in, then called my fucking landlord to complain.

I have a temper. I seriously do. I thought, fine bitch. I'll deal with you in a more direct yet equally respectful manner. I did this by standing on my couch, pounding on the wall, and yelling directly at her. I called her some pretty wretched names, and I said the following:

"Listen, you coward. If you have a problem with ME, you deal with ME. You don't broadcast my business to my landlord, you cow. I've been here for 9 fucking years and if you think you're going to fuck with me behind my back, you've got another thing coming. Now get your tail out from between your legs and face me, or shut your mf mouth before I shut it for you. And do not think I won't."

Now my husband, who had never seen me like this before, and who didn't know what the content of my conversation with my landlord was, stood looking at me as if I'd just been teleported into the apartment from another planet.

"Baby," he said. "Are you alright?"

So I then told him the story, and he was equally enraged. We knew she was inside, and we knew she heard me. Every word.

Since that day, I haven't personally had a problem with her. She avoids me like the plague and I like it that way. I'd be pretty scared of me too. She did however, call the police twice to tell them that "drugs" were being sold out of the building. Cops came to Laurie's door and her boyfriend, who was drunk at the time, couldn't believe it. Laurie came home and found 2 cops sitting in front of our building. She asked them what was going on, and they said the following:

"We got a call from someone that drugs were being sold out of the building."

"What? That's ridiculous," says Laurie.

"Yeah, there's just some drunk Mexican guy up there" says the cop. "He's not selling anything".

"That's my boyfriend," says Laurie.

"Oh, sorry," says the cop.

The best part is that this happened again a few weeks later. Again, Laurie, who gets home about an hour before me, finds 2 cops sitting in front of the building. These are different guys. "Is something wrong?" she says.

"Yeah. You got a nut job who has a 911 addiction living in the back of the building" is his response. "Tells us drugs are being sold out of here. Thinks we don't have anything better to do."

So the cops have her number. Okay. That's good. But then she starts in with Ralphie.

Ralphie was a little boy when I moved in. He's the sweetest kid. I used to tell his mother Tina that I hoped if I ever had a child, he'd be as sweet and happy as Ralph. He hasn't changed. He's just grown up. He's about 17 now, and has a car fetish. He rents a garage adjacent to the laundromat and lives down the street from us with his mom and sister. Over the past year or two, he's run loud cars at like 11:30 under my window. I open the window, and I say "honey, it's late, do you think you could do that on the street instead?" and the response is "I'm so sorry! Yes! I'll do this tomorrow. I'm sorry!" And he does. No problem. No attitude. You talk to him with respect, he treats you with respect. He's a good kid. I'd come home with bags and he'd run across the street to hold my door open for me. That's what I'm talking about.

A few weeks ago, when I was off from work, I was awakened by this insane fight going on in the laundromat parking lot. It was my neighbor (I'll call her the unabomber, because that's how she dresses) and Ralph. She was accusing him of selling drugs (starting to sound familiar?) and bitching loudly about his car. Now, she was on her way to work, fully dressed, so what's the problem with his car (that didn't even wake me up, by the way). They began cursing at each other and screaming. She got out of her car after backing it up and went right up into Ralph's face, telling him she knew all about what he's up to and he won't get away with it. You should have seen this poor kid's face. He was pissed, but he KNEW he was dealing with a true paranoid.

There's a family that lives across the parking lot from me. They've been there since I've been there, maybe longer. They are from Nicaragua. It's a grandfather, boy and girl. Their mother is there from time to time, but the grandfather takes care of the kids. The boy is autistic, I think, and the girl is the sweetest 9 or 10 year old you could meet. It's a weird story, but he loves them and cares for them and does what he has to to make ends meet. He goes through our recycling and takes bottles and cans, big deal.

The unabomber called child protective services on them.

They went back to Nicaragua. No one has seen them since.

There's another family in the neighborhood. They're from Ecuador. They have a daughter named Elizabeth who has always loved my dogs. She and her brother play outside their building, and they were afraid of Jane and Elvis at first, but fascinated. I let them slowly get to know the dogs and assured them they wouldn't be bitten if they wanted to pet them. Finally, the kids and the dogs came together and they all loved each other. Their mom was always outside with them, watching them. She's a beautiful lady and she'd give you the clothes off her back if she felt you needed them. On September 11, she walked me home from the neighborhood bar where I went and got drunk by myself. She lives next door and saw me come out with tears in my eyes.

The unabomber called child protective services on her.

Ralph's mother went to her apartment and asked if they could talk about what her issues were with Ralph. She's a sweetheart. Not a crazy mom. The unabomber said, and I quote "Get the fuck away from me, you low life piece of trash. You're no good, just like your stupid son".

Every night I come home from work and I have to pee. I'm pregnant, you know!?! So my first stop is the bathroom. The first sounds I hear are the "asshole list". That's what I call it. I hear her on the phone, screeching. I have no idea who it is that listens to her, but here's the nightly conversation:

"What an asshole!"

"He's a fucking asshole."

"That cheap fucking asshole?"

"She's like, an asshole."

"Oh, that guy? He's an...asshole!"

This goes on FOR HOURS.

I turn up the tv.

I moved the couch farther away from the wall.

I try to avoid the bathroom.

I'm buying a radio for the bathroom when it can't be avoided.

I feel so sorry for her dogs, being trapped with such negativity. They are so sweet, and when she walks them near where I'm walking, they strain toward me and I pet their heads, keep going.

Makes me very sad. I have such a nice neighborhood. It's being systematically destroyed by a psycho. I try to have compassion, but when you're calling the authorities on illegal immigrants who are desperately trying to give their children a better life, and who do nothing to you, I find it difficult to find it in my heart to be forgiving. There's an enormous difference between abuse and poverty. I believe she doesn't see a difference.

A few nights ago, one of Ralph's friends was downstairs in the lot with the car running. She came down and started in with them. A woman I'd never seen before opened her window across the lot and told the unabomber to get a life, and that if she accused these kids of selling drugs again, she was going to live to regret it.

The kid started sing songing to the unabomber "call 91111! call 91111! go, hurry, call 91111!"

I couldn't stop laughing. It's our new code. When anything goes wrong we say "call 91111!"

But it won't be funny when the baby comes. She's going to pull this shit with us, I know it. Calling child protective services, all that crap.

I'm going to take pictures of the unabomber and put them on here. I want you to share in the nuttiness.

:)