Bruce was an older, round man with disappearing hair. He was divorced with a daughter around the age of 12 who spent most of her time with her mother. Bruce liked to spend his nights standing outside the door to our building playing angry birds, smoking a cigarette. If he was having a good day, he'd be playing bubble shooter and smile as I walked past. Bruce lived a lonely life, but he was content and kept to himself. He was the perfect neighbor, until one day when his Netflix DVD was in my mail.
His name was Max. He liked Tom Cruise action movies. The mystery was gone and in it's place: a connection. I now had to knock on this man's door and exchange pleasantries and return his Netflix. Like a neighbor.
I moved out when my lease expired two months later.
My next building was near perfect. It had the right amount of drama paired with eye contact avoidance in the halls. The woman above me cheated on her boyfriend and he always caught her. The couple across the hall sold weed, and on occasion, a little cocaine. The girl next door never paid her rent on time, but was always leaving in strange vehicles all hours of the day or night.
Not long into my second lease, I became one of those stories. When my boyfriend and I broke up, it was surreal. It was somehow just as entertaining as the lives I have given the neighbors. I, again, had to move.
I had a chance at a new start and I was more excited than I thought possible. I moved to a nice, small complex where neighbors stopped and said hello. I even went a little crazy and learned their names. There was Pat, the old spinster next door who did a load of laundry every night. Sally, a middle aged brunette, lived on the second floor and had a beautiful chocolate lab named Abby. The close-to-retirement couple, Jim and Nancy, lived on the opposite side of me with a pair of spaniels. Mary lived around the corner with her small, yippy, fluff ball of a dog. Everything was going great. Everything was great until one day, I got a neighborly knock on my door.
Mary. Mary asked that fateful question that, normally, I would have answered with a smart ass comment and a door slam. Mary asked me if I was religious.
In the spirit of fresh starts, I tried to let her down gently. Mary took that as an invitation into my home, after a quick run around the corner to grab her bible. She spent the next ten or so minutes explaining her church and what it teaches and how to "get the most out of the good book." After many attempts to kindheartedly throw this woman out of my apartment, she finally left. I now have to endure smiles and hugs and church invitations from the elderly woman two doors away. I now have the urge to draw the blinds and turn off the lights when I see her sweeping the sidewalk outside our doors Quickly! Before she sees that I'm home. Even Sally and her beautiful lab send my brain racing to find an excuse in case I'm asked to dog sit again.
I have become invested. I'm even 65% certain that Pat passed away a few weeks ago, but I dare not ask should it deepen the relationship with a neighbor.
Being my reclusive and judgmental self is much easier. What hit me hard enough on the head to make me think developing relationships with my neighbors was a good idea? I may have turned over a new leaf, but I'm still going to tell you I'm out of eggs, even though I have a full carton.
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