But long before I lived in my current apartment, I had lived in a variety of other locales and settings. I lived 18 years in the middle of a hay field with coyotes and bunny rabbits as my neighbors before moving to mid-Missouri where I acquired 50 sorority women for neighbors. I spent four years living in a sorority house, and in those four years, I had 7 different roommates. I generally didn’t care who I roomed with, so I always got the roommates that nobody else wanted to room with. Trust me, there are no shortage of stories from those years.
I eventually spent some time living in Kenya on a couple of short-terms stints, and that maybe resulted in the first time I had geckos for neighbors. In grad school, I lived next to an elderly gentleman who, quite frankly, just seemed so cranky that I never really bothered to interact with him much.
But I tell you what. Nothing beats the string of neighbors I’ve had in the nearly three years since I moved into my current apartment.
My first conscious memory of a neighbor was of the guy who lived above me. I’m not really sure what it is about the apartment above me, but two things seem to occur relative to that space: 1) nobody ever stays long, and 2) whoever does live there usually has a knack for making a fair amount of noise. I soon learned this particular neighbor was in possession of a particular Christmas decoration. Which played some sort of jingle. On loop.
I wanted to lose my mind. It was like listening to “This Is the Song That Doesn’t End” by Lamp Chop’s.
Christmas eventually came and went, and the tenant moved on along with his decorations. There’s blank space in my memory as to who lived there immediately after him, but eventually a couple moved in.
And let’s just say I was very aware of their love life. Very. So much so there were some nights I used ear plugs or put my headphones in and I still couldn’t drown them out. I was losing sleep because of these people.
I wanted to lose my mind all over again. Some days I would nearly be on the verge of tears out of frustration. And I wasn’t sure what exactly to do about it – I mean, what are my options? Go up to their apartment, knock on the door, introduce myself and say, “Hi, would you mind not having sex all.the.time?!” Yeah, because that’s not at all awkward. I eventually learned in a roundabout way from the maintenance guy the couple got evicted (I’m assuming for reasons other than just having sex all the time).
Then for a brief time a girl moved in, who I did actually get to meet at one point. Very kind. She was fairly quiet and really was only there maybe a few months. I usually wasn’t too aware of her, but I was usually fairly aware of her cat. Yes, her cat. Her cat got what my brother calls “the zoomies.” The zoomies are what happens when an animal acts as if they got injected with a shot of Red Bull and then run around like a bat out of Hades. So, I would often hear this cat zipping around from one side of the apartment to the other, bounding around for patches of time.
And then before too long, she also moved on, and then I got my present neighbor. Who I learned in no time was a fan of classic rock. And by fan, I mean he actually plays the guitar and sings the same songs over and over again. And by playing the guitar, I mean he plugs his electric or bass guitar into an amp, and occasionally throws the bongo drums in for good measure. I have never heard “Proud Mary” so much before in my life. And I swear he played “Don’t Stop Believing” the other night with an instrument (I'm not sure if it was his own voice somewhere up in the falsetto range or if it was an actual instrument) that sounded very much like a kazoo. At 11:00 at night. This past weekend’s repertoire included a duet with a girl, who also doubled as a trumpet player.
I came home from church one Sunday here a couple of weeks ago, and really just wanted to study and get some reading done. In silence. But Mr. Don’t Stop Believing was rocking out on his guitar and didn’t appear to be stopping any time soon. After it went on for awhile, I decided I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I thought I’d sit in my car and enjoy the silence of the parking lot. So much for that idea. I could hear him playing from the parking lot. So then I thought I’d drive down to a nearby park, thinking I would find some solitude.
Alas, it was not meant to be.
I drive down to the park, attempting to find the farthest corner I can, away from the crowds. I park my car, roll the windows down, shut the engine off. And what do I hear?
Bagpipes.
Bagpipes!
The world was conspiring against me and my pursuit of silence.
But when I really stop and think about it – my priority should be to form intentional relationships with my neighbors, to become familiar with them and not merely acquaint them with the many noises they make. I need to take time to meet them, learn their names, learn their stories. (Thank you to the book Art of Neighboring for reminding me and encouraging me and convicting me about the necessity of this.) And not with the ulterior motive of coaxing them to live the life of a mime so long as they live above me. My neighbors are people at the end of the day.
And people matter.
In all their noisy glory.
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