Display by Label: Neighbors

The way I remember it is something like this, and it's really the beginning (and tragic end) of so many party stories: Everything was going fine until somebody brought out the bottle of tequila. Just for the record, I believe that somebody was my wife. And when I say "everything was going fine until ..." I mean "for me."

And here's the thing: it was only Thursday night. Friday was July 4th. Friday was supposed to be the night. Not Thursday.

Demon blue agave. You and me are not on speaking terms, brother.

I only partially blame C. The real culprit is K, whose promises of new postings on her blog lead me to set aside my own misgivings of watering a bellyful of recently-planted IPA Hops with Patron shots. I think there were only three. But three was enough. The hickory flavor of E's slow-smoked ribs was so good that night, but the next morning I would have given anything to shake that scent from my nose. It seemed to be everywhere. And it probably was.

I'm not an idiot ... I mean, I know the "beer before liquor, never sicker" mantra. But honestly I've never had that much of a problem mixing alcohols in the past. When I was twenty-three and tending bar, it was not uncommon to chase beers with shots of tequila as a matter of good form and proper etiquette. (I'm nothing if not polite.) In the morning I would feel a little like the inside of a small clanging church bell, but the sensation would go away with water and breakfast. Somewhere in the last eleven years, though, the church bells have gotten bigger, and they've begun to ring louder and deeper. And they can put a frightful shakiness in my belly. And so I have new respect for the axioms I learned in college.

It took all of us a while to get going on July 4th. Particularly me. I felt bad not emerging from my room until 2pm. But that's the nice thing about close friends and an understanding wife: they'll cover for you when you're down. I owe them. For icing down the keg. For setting things up. For taking Honey out at 6:30 am. When I finally made it downstairs, shaking and about ten pounds lighter than I was the night before, the first of my neighbors began showing up with their July 4th game faces on, all full of energy and wondering what the hell kind of party this was where everybody was chewing Rolaids and talking about hairs on dogs and squinting at each other from behind sunglasses under drizzly skies.

And let me go ahead and apologize right now. To all of you. Because the details of this post sound like they came straight out of some college student's MySpace page. Let's see ... there was a keg. Check. Somebody got sick from tequila. Check. A trip to the Urgent Care was made. Check. The cops came. Check. Okay, nobody engaged in any sloppy make-out sessions in the basement (at least I don't think they did). And okay, there was no beer bonging. Oh, and nobody streaked down our street naked. But still, all and all, this had all the crucial ingredients of a college house party. And that's sort of embarrassing ... since, with the exception of a few twenty-somethings, we were mostly of the thirty-something-not-quite-willing-to-admit-we're-really-that-old demographic.

It weren't pretty.

And yet, it really was quite a beautiful thing. Because beneath all of these details which, on the surface, seem so horrific and clichéd, there was, at root, the undercurrent of a really good time. The kind of time you don't want to end: Catching up with friends. Sitting around a fire (in July!) listening to music and telling stories. Laughing. And bringing a little Texas Backyard BBQ to the New Jersey burbs.

The urgent-care visit actually had nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with a spider bite on my foot which I had let fester for over a week and which had become gruesomely infected.

And yes, the cops did come. Because my neighbor Ax brought over some fireworks. And let me just pause for a moment to say this: when your new neighbor tells you he'll bring fireworks over to your 4th of July party and you say something like, "Aren't those illegal in New Jersey?" And he responds with something like, "Aw fuck 'em," and you both share a hearty laugh at your mutual contempt for authority, you should trust that little stream of a conscience flowing through all those overgrown weeds of hutzpah. Here's what I found out about Ax that weekend: he's really good at being a rebel, as long as the rebelliousness takes place at somebody else's house. When the cops showed up at my driveway Friday night, it was just me and my friend E from Texas out there to greet them. Every yellow-bellied Yankee neighbor — these people who had kids and respectable day-jobs and upstanding lives — had disappeared inside. E was standing there holding a lighter in one hand and a bottle rocket in the other. And I was holding a black plastic garbage bag full of spent fireworks. The cop was actually quite nice about the whole thing. He said he didn't want to ruin the fun, but some neighbors had complained about the noise. We apologized, and he went on his way, but not before asking me what my address was. So here we are: only four months living in New Jersey, and I'm in the police database. Which means next year we're doing the fireworks at Ax's house. Or I'm leaving Jersey altogether.

So here are my lessons from this July 4th:
And most importantly:

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I can sympathize with these people. I have to admit, I like me a little Dolly too, from time to time. I used to blast The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas soundtrack in my room. This probably sounds worse than it was. I think my mom was slightly embarrassed (and guilt-ridden) that her nine-year-old son knew the lyrics to "A Lil' Ol' Pissant Country Place." But it was a great song. And I never really processed just how 'raunchy' the subject matter was. I think the thing I found to be the most 'dirty' in the entire soundtrack was the word 'Pissant.' I finally saw the play years later in Dallas. Not the same without Dolly and Burt.

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The annoying thing is I'm normally up by then. I'm normally up at around 6:30. But yesterday I was not. I hadn't gone to bed until about three, so I was still out of it when the phone rang at 8:14. I chose not to answer it. Nothing good can come from answering the phone in this state. But when the machine went on and I heard the rush of street noise come through the speaker I realized it was somebody calling from the front of the building. And somewhere through the haze of my sleep, I remembered: The Package. My laptop! It's here. It was FedEx.

I hate abrupt wake-ups, but sometimes they're necessary. Like when you realize you've overslept and you have a plane to catch. I think that's the worst. Or when your consciousness is tingling alive just as you feel something crawling up your leg. That's pretty bad, too. But here's another one: realizing the new laptop you ordered, which you've been tracking online since it left Shanghai last week, is just outside your building and about to get back on a truck. I threw off the sheets and looked out the window. There it was: the FedEx truck, parked right outside. Wait! I thought about opening the window and screaming from my fifth-story window, but that might be kind of weird. The next best thing was to run out in my underwear, but I had enough of my wits about me to know that was probably a bad option, too. Oh, why so early, FedEx man?

I found my jeans on the radiator and slid into them as I made my way out the door. In the hallway, I buttoned them up, though I discovered later that I forgot the zipper. Or maybe I didn't. Maybe I left it open intentionally. Maybe that's part of 'the look' I was going for. Why not?

Bare feet. Crazy hair like some kind of bird's nest. Couldn't wait on the elevator. No time. Down the stairs I ran hobbled, my SI joint yelling at me the entire way: E-hem! Excuse me . . . what the hell do you think you're doing? Remember me?

When I got to the lobby, I saw the guy getting into the truck. I didn't have keys to the building, so I had to pull the mat into the doorway to prop the door open, which I believe violates some sort of condo rule.

I got to within an arms length and the truck began pulling away. I hopped along side of it for a second, and then screamed: "Hey!"

The yell was kind of loud and aggressive for the eight o'clock hour. I was a bit surprised at myself, actually. I don't normally yell like that, you know. But I had just ran down five flights of stairs. This guy wasn't getting away that easily. Not when his truck was right there beside me.

The truck stopped suddenly and I heard a car honk from behind it. I went to the side window and smiled a big toothy smile at the driver. "Package?" I said, and pointed to the building. Then to myself. And nodded for effect.

The man said something, which I didn't understand, but I did hear him say my apartment number, so I nodded again. Yes, that is me. Then he said something else which I didn't understand. I shook my head.

He looked a little perturbed now - he sighed, rolled his eyes, and put the truck into park. Then he shifted over to the passenger side of his truck and opened the door.

"A lady signed for it and was going to bring it up to you."

It's a wonderful thing to have neighbors that are nice enough to sign for packages and bring them to your door when you're not available. But right then, I wanted to strangle whoever it was who had done just that. She must have gone up the elevator while I was coming down the stairs.

"Shit!" I said, again a little too loudly.

The FedEx guy kinda scowled at that remark. I immediately apologized. "No, that's great. Thank you!" Then I limped back inside.

When I got to my apartment door, there was my new laptop waiting for me in its neat little cardboard box, calm and innocent. The realization that right now I could be sleeping in my bed and the package would still be right here waiting for me was a bitter pill to swallow. But whatever. It was here, wasn't it?

I found out later who the mysterious signing lady was by way of an email confirmation from FedEx which revealed her name. I had her email address, so I sent her a quick thank you.

"That's what neighbors are for!" she wrote back.

Indeed.

Happy Turkey Week!

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Ho_Hum  Neighbors