By Jamie
Recently there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find a friendly, attractive, and impossibly young woman outside. Turns out she was my new neighbor. This puzzled me somewhat as I had observed two other impossibly young adults, a couple, move in a few months prior. Even the mom helping them move in was younger than I am.
Age is something that comes up from time to time. My age doesn’t bother me. I have enjoyed where my feet hit the path all along the way. Age difference is one continually stimulating aspect of Sophie’s and my ongoing conversation. We enjoy the spark that jumps across that gap. Clearly, and I can say this without hyperbole or delusion because our blog provides ample evidence, she has no complaints.
I bring up age only because it was one topic in my brief conversation with my new-new neighbor. I confided to her that, unlike previous occupants of that apartment, her roommates seem to want to be left alone. More than that, they seem to go out of their way not to speak or make eye contact. I wondered out loud if I, who enjoy my quiet time on the balcony we all share, was projecting a negative vibe. If this were true, I would be upset. I feel I’ve always been a good neighbor. Years later I’m still in touch with Ellie and Rob, who made that stain on the deck while using coffee grounds to darken a bookshelf. I shared professional war stories with Jane and Mike, who moved to Dallas for work. I watched Collin and Mona’s dog while they traveled back home to visit family. The current situation, so far, is starkly different.
For the first time, I wondered if age had anything to do with it. I voiced this concern to my new neighbor. She quickly reassured me, saying her new roommates were simply shy. But she did acknowledge a “creepy older man” cultural default from her perspective.
The reason my friendly, attractive, impossibly young neighbor stopped by was to let me know they were throwing a party that weekend. Very courteous of her. And during that party, while indulging my nicotine habit on our shared balcony, I got to hear other uses of the word “creepy.” The term seems to have risen to an umbrella level, covering a wide variety of foibles and potential awkwardness. I was going to compliment your dress, but I didn’t want to be creepy. Or I thought I saw you on campus, but I didn’t want to be that loud creepy girl who shouts from a mile away. And so on. Speaking the word is a talisman chasing away the possibility of self-fulfillment. Creepiness is banished, even as the compliment or acknowledgement gets delivered. The desire to connect deftly, or at least successfully, appears to span generations. Perhaps it, and the courage required to push through, are universal.
Close quarters
I complimented my new neighbor on her courteous foresight. I know the need for it, having received a noise complaint earlier this year. It would seem that Sophie’s and my late-evening activities have not gone unnoticed by my downstairs neighbors. I already knew there might be a problem, based on their stony silence as we passed in the parking lot. My winter project, adding legs to my bed, was done for numerous reasons: to create more storage, to lift the mattress to a level more suitable for sex, and to minimize the bed’s contact with the floor. But it was not enough. The office informed me that I need to be more considerate.
I’ve done research. The government of Canada, that national bastion of politeness, has actually published a document about soundproofing a shared space. All it would take is to strip my aging building down to the studs and, using some complicated engineering magic, detach the floor from its noise-transmitting supports. I doubt the office will make this a front-burner project. So in the meantime, I have reached out to my downstairs neighbors, and Sophie and I are more selective about the noises we make. The effort seems to be paying off.
Despite one’s best efforts, it’s hard not to know what’s up with the neighbors. My new-new next-door neighbors, blinded to some extent by their own youth and beauty and energy and creativity, think they have invented experiences that are timeless and universal. I could smirk, I could condescend, I could indulge some sort of misplaced jealousy from my vantage point halfway down the timeline, or I could pretend not to notice and let them find their path. And then there’s the guy across the way downstairs, who has had a string of female roommates in the years since we became neighbors. He’s been the source of much balcony speculation during nicotine breaks. The truth, as I learned when he and I volunteered to help some elderly neighbors move, is that he is helping childhood friends from another state move to Austin and get settled. But that does not explain why he chose to hook up with his upstairs neighbor some months ago, creating a confusing tangle of intimacy and privacy they are still struggling to unravel. Our new friendship gave me the opportunity to tease him about his choices, and he could only hang his head in playful acknowledgement. The object of his occasional affection is herself a good neighbor, kind and friendly to others, quick to smile and wave. I hope the two of them get their business sorted in a mutually agreeable way.
Against all odds, Sophie and I have found a kindred spirit through these random interactions. Veronica has a deceptively mild demeanor, an active sex life, and a taste for BDSM that complements ours. We have enjoyed chatting by the pool and on the balcony. We’ve discussed a trip to Hippie Hollow, Austin’s clothing-optional beach. We exchange text messages, saying hi and checking up. The friendship is platonic and destined to stay that way. I don’t see Veronica often, but I like knowing she’s out there. Life is sweeter when you find your people.
I know there are others. The evidence is as obvious as the Wifi servers that show up on the “nearby” list. Some haven’t been named, still a jumble of proprietary letters and numbers. Some are simply funny: ThisIsNotTheWifiYouAreLookingFor, NotaCIAsafehouse, Your mom. Some are wishful thinking: Need243some. But sometimes there’s intrigue: Poly Love, Poly Love 5. Duplicate servers for the same residence because…well, polyamory can be complicated. I think I know which neighbors these are. Maybe someday the topic will come up in person.
The sport of intimacy
Toward the end of Pride and Prejudice, in which gossip plays a starring role, Elizabeth Bennet’s father offers this observation: “For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?” Mr. Bennet didn’t live in an apartment, but the sentiment holds true. I am sure my new-new neighbors, as well as everybody in the courtyard, wonders what’s up with the guy on the second floor who enjoys frequent nicotine breaks and observes everything. Perhaps they spin stories out of Sophie’s presence beside me or, before her, that of other guests. Some of them have had the courage to come up, to introduce themselves, to sit and chat. They are no longer strangers. They have the details about me, about Sophie, and in some cases about this blog.
According to my friendly, attractive, and impossibly young new neighbor, she and her roommates also have a blog. Or a creative endeavor. Something. She called it “love and chaos,” based (I assume) on the landscape they currently explore and think they invented. My research reveals only a well-established local band by that name. I have debated whether or not to introduce them to the idea of copyright and brand infringement. I have debated whether to tell them they have a neighbor with a similar project. But I think I will wait. I will let them decide where their path leads and whether it crosses the balcony to my door. In the meantime, no matter their impressions, whether they know it or not, I’ve got their back.
amaranthine border 