NeIgHbOr LoLs

I feel guilty writing this post, but not guilty enough to not do it.

Apparently my apartment building has a fairly high tenant turnover rate. I don’t know if this is due to the guy who walks his pit bull off-leash, the overactive heater in winter that makes every day “hang out in your underpants despite freezing temperatures outside” day, or the generally suicide-inducing effect of industrial grey carpet, but there it is. When I moved in, out floor “roster” was as follows:

Indian Family

White Guy

Lanky African-American Homosexual

Korean Guy with Trombone

Girl Who Slams Her Door All The Time And Has Loud Phone Conversations About Being in a Band and How Her Bandmate Wrote a Song Superficially About Ducks but Is Actually an Allegory About Sexual Abuse  and is Named Maggie Fineman and If You Google Yourself Please Stop Slamming the Door

Russian Girl

Me, later joined by Giant Camel

A year and a half later, the roster is now:

Indian Family Hispanic Family

White Guy

Lanky African-American Homosexual Hipster Girl Who Thinks Having Someone Hold the Elevator Door for Her Is a Right, Not a Privilege

Korean Guy with Trombone WACKY WANDA

Girl Who Slams Her Door All The Time And Has Loud Phone Conversations About Being in a Band and How Her Bandmate Wrote a Song Superficially About Ducks but Is Actually an Allegory About Sexual Abuse  and is Named Maggie Fineman and If You Google Yourself Please Stop Slamming the Door

Russian Girl Southern Girl

Me and Giant Camel

Now… Wacky Wanda. While I was out of town, Giant Camel met her as she was moving in and introduced himself. I have told him a hundred times not to do this, because if you introduce yourself people know who you are. Anyway, Wacky Wanda started coming over to the apartment to talk. All the time. Once, while I was still out of town, she knocked, then waited, crouched by the door so she would be out of sight from the peephole, until he opened the door. She still comes by every few days and knocks a really, really long time in an irregular pattern: tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP TAP tap tap tap pause pause tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP tap. I do not feel compelled to answer the door because I am almost never wearing pants because of aforementioned heater issue.

Wacky Wanda leaves her keys in the door… every few days. Wacky Wanda takes naps in her living room with the door wide open. Wacky Wanda borrows Giant Camel’s cell phone to call her parents and have screaming fights with them. Wacky Wanda leaves scissors in the hall. Wacky Wanda leaves laundry in the hall. Wacky Wanda leaves her apartment door wide open and plays the Cranberries at top volume (Yes, “Zombie.” What else?), which is why I’ve started using the fire escape to go out for errands.

Now… I have a thick skin when it comes to bizarre behavior. I could chalk most, if not all, of the above up to being a free spirit or good old-fashioned alcoholism. But:

I don’t think Wacky Wanda believes in me. Having been raised polite if not exactly right, I smile at her in the hall and am ignored. Not shrugged off, ignored, each time. I’ve run into her with Giant Camel a few times, and she greets him warmly and does not so much as rest her eyes on me. The other day he mentioned his roommate to her and she said “You have a roommate? I’ve never seen him.” Apparently my recent weight gain and Aryan complexion now allow me to pass as a pink elephant.

Wacky Wanda has started leaving a series of notes on the front door of the building. It started with this:

Well, shit. I took a picture of it but it didn’t come out. It read, more or less:

“My keys went down the elevator. If you have time, could you get them?”

There’s a lot going on here. Her keys – I know what they look like because they’re always in her door lock – are on a gigantic ring. As in, I would have bet they couldn’t fall down the crack between the elevator car and the floor. As in she either dropped them exactly right or was somehow playing with them in the elevator crack. I also like “went down.” It’s that same passive voice everyone uses when they fuck up. “Mistakes were made.” Note also the lack of identifying details on the note: two months, and it’s already assumed that Wacky Wanda’s handwriting and unique antics are recognized by the staff.

Then, of course, there’s the simple elegance of this one:

“Please fix the toilet in my apartment immediately.”

It was stuck to the glass with a Band-Aid.