Why I Hate My Neighbors

by Tara Rubano

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It’s customary to hate your neighbors because of their late night parties, constant disregard for cleanliness, disrespect for your property or penchant for horrible taste in music, but is it customary to hate them because they’re old, deaf fucks? Usually not.

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When I first moved to LA, I settled in West Hollywood. We figured since it was gay, there was no way we - two females - would get raped, at least not anytime soon. We lived in a converted garage that was split into four one-bedroom apartments, two upstairs and two downstairs. Because my roommate and I were broke and jobless, we elected to rent a one bedroom and share. It wasn’t too bad at the time, but soon we grew weary of hearing our neighbors do every goddamn thing. One of them being a gay dude, would always wake us up in the middle of the night to some random guy in his apartment, who decided to cook and blast club music at 3am on a weekday. Sometimes we’d see him shuffle past us, looking at the ground as he escorted a young Asian boy into his apartment, which always make us giggle; he seemed so ashamed of himself. Our other neighbor, this stupid twat Miriam, wore high heels 24/7 on hard wood floors and stomped around like an elephant. We could even hear her pee and have sex. Usually when she was fucking, we’d yell to the ceiling, “We can hear you having sex!!” just to piss her off. Those were some loud neighbor days, but they were loud and annoying in ways you’d expect.

In my other apartments since, most of my neighbors would only annoy me when they’d OD and had to be escorted to the hospital on a weekly basis. There was this one guy who was probably in his 70s or 80s and every damn time he was wheeled out by the paramedics, he’d scream to us in a foul-mouth boozy breath “I have pneumonia!” when we knew it was anything but. One time he fell down in the bushes in front of our house with foam all around his mouth screaming for our help. We responded by calling the police and taking pictures with him while we waited.

But since I’ve moved to Echo Park I have almost daily fantasies of murder. It’s not my young buck of a neighbor upstairs who entertains many pretty ladies or visiting friends, nor is it the upstairs girls who USED to piss me off when they’d move their furniture every fucking day and play the same shitty emo song on acoustic guitar. And it wasn’t the house behind us who used to house a band and now three singles and one cat that also moonlights at our house when he’s locked out of his. Nope, none of the usual suspects you’d expect to be at the end of my rage stick. Instead it’s an old man, his allegedly crazy son and their three asshole dogs.

I have no idea what the geezer’s name is. I usually refer to him as the “old man” or “I hope you die soon!” guy. He lives in an awesome stone Victorian-type house that’s older than my Grandparents, with a really cool pool in the back. You’d think he’d invite us over once in a while for a dip, but nope, he’s too busy annoying us to death with his early morning antics of “get-up-at-6am-and-piss-off-everyone-because-I’m-stupid.”

There are many reasons why I wish death would visit his doorstep sooner than it is, and one of them is the driveway. For some genius reason, the architects of our neighborhood decided that three houses should share one driveway. In theory, it takes up less space but in reality it sucks. It is riddled with holes worse than Edward James Olmos’ pot marks, therefore bestowing many cars that travel it with flat tires. Our landlords won’t fix it because they claim that the asshole neighbors own half of it and refuse to contribute repair costs. Also, my landlords tried to pass the buck to the neighbor’s “crazy” son saying that he likes to slash tires so it was probably him not the driveway. This guy is in his 50s, I’d expect his lashing out techniques to be a little more advanced, say killing people and sprinkling their body parts in the garden.

All above being said, I don’t mind having to share the driveway. What I mind is the eroded construction that passes for a driveway, resulting in sounds of the apocalypse every time a vehicle uses it. That and the fact that the gate my asshole neighbor parks his car behind is located off the driveway right next to my bedroom window.

Every morning at 6am my asshole neighbor gets his day started. He first rolls open the big metal gate, which screeches worse than the most annoying Yoko Ono song, and begins to maneuver his monster mini-van so that it can fit through the narrow space into the even narrower driveway located right next to my bedroom window. Once he gets the big pile of shit situated, he then opens the driver’s side door to assumingly close the gate or fuck off for a few minutes. That wouldn’t be so bad except that his car is equipped with the sounding device that alerts you when your keys are still in the ignition. So, while he struggles to close the gate, run back into the house, talk to anyone nearby, mainly his three dogs, the car goes, “ding…ding…ding…ding…ding…” until he gets his decrepit ass back in the car. Many, many mornings I have suppressed the urge to go to my bedroom window, which is about 3 feet away from him and yell, “Close the fucking door asshole!!” but I don’t. I hate myself every morning for not doing it. Once he does get back in the car, off he goes and the quiet returns, until a leaf blows past and his dogs begin to bark.

I normally don’t advocate animal cruelty, but if someone were to “accidentally” run over one of the three dogs next door that bark incessantly, I don’t think I’d mind, hell, I’d probably blow the person just to show my appreciation. These dogs are kept behind a gate all day and night. Never do you seem them running around, frolicking, or being taken for walks. They spend their days sitting on the concrete barking at anything that moves. If you walk up the driveway, they bark. If you walk down the driveway, they bark. If you are trying to sleep at 2am, they bark for HOURS until they either tire, or its dawn. Don’t even get me started on when any of our 8 neighbors wheel their recycling containers down to the curb.

“Don’t they hear their dogs? How can they stand it?” I yell to my boyfriend who was sleeping. “Aren’t they keeping you awake?” “No.” he replies, “You are.” He then tries to tune out my rants and stamps on the ground, as I loudly curse those-that-will-not-shut-the-fuck-up. It’s a fucking nuisance, it’s noise pollution, it’s a hassle and it’s what fuels my hate-filled dreams of murder, mayhem and bits of doggy in my neighbor’s mailbox.

I often wish I had magical abilities. Just a wiggle of my nose would render these little doggies mute. With a flick of a wand, they would fall into a slumber fueled by a poppy field, never to wake again, or at least until I’m already out of the house. I think about how much fun it would be to perplex my neighbors when they see their precious little mutts bark soundlessly. Maybe he’d think he was in the early stages of dementia or Alzheimers. Maybe he’d put himself in the hospital or a home, then maybe the dogs and his retarded ass would cease to annoy me.

Sometimes I feel bad for hating them and wishing ill-will. Every time I see my asshole neighbor, he waves or smiles. One time a visitor of his stopped us for chit-chat. I even ran into his daughter at a yard sale and we talked for a bit. I thought to myself, “She seems relatively normal, maybe I can talk to her. Should I tell her that I hate her father and his mongrel mutts?” I refrained and instead wrote a letter to animal control which yielded little results.

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to noise now that I unwillingly moved into my 30s. Maybe I’m sick of hearing everyone do everything. Should I just buck up and head to the suburbs? Nah, fuck that. I’ll just continue the cycle of hate, rage and evil thoughts. It makes for far better conversation than hydrangea bushes and track-lighting.

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Tara Rubano is the co-editor of Duct Tape & Rouge, and no, she is not stuffing her bra with watermelons. She's stuffing them with mammaries.