I wrote about my neighbor dying a few days ago—Mr. Jackson from across the hall. He was a nice old guy.
Last weekend, his brother and his wife went inside this apartment and took out the things they wanted of his. I introduced myself to them and told them how sorry I was for their loss. Just like Mr. Jackson, they were nice to me.
Yesterday morning, some maintenance people from the building went into Mr. Jackson’s apartment and starting cleaning it out. They hauled up a dumpster to my floor and put it in the hall. Watching through the peephole on my apartment door, I watched those maintenance guys laugh and cut up while throwing out Mr. Jackson’s stuff.
I thought to myself this is what it all gets down to. You live, then you die and your stuff that nobody wants gets put in a dumpster by people you don’t even know.
That’s depressing. I’m going to try and not think about this ever again.
(Image from WordPress)
Across the hall from me is quiet now. My neighbor—I’ll call him Mr. Jackson—died about a month ago.
When he died, I was house-sitting at my son’s house in Clifton over there in Cincinnati, Ohio (I live in Covington, Kentucky). I found out he was dead upon my return. Another tenant on another floor told me.
I liked Mr. Jackson OK. I didn’t really know him all that well, but he was polite to me and always courteous. That goes along ways in my book.
He had a girlfriend living with him. I’m just assuming it was his girlfriend—not at all sure. Mr. Jackson was white and older—maybe my age—60. She was black and younger—maybe in her 40’s. Sometimes, she would get loud, actually too loud. It never pissed me off too much because, like Mr. Jackson, she was always polite and courteous to me.
Mr. Jackson’s girlfriend or wife or whatever she was is gone. There’s no one across the hall from me now. A couple times, people have knocked on my apartment door wanting to know where Mr. Jackson’s “friend” is and want to say how sorry they are for her loss of Mr. Jackson, but I don’t know where she is. I kind of wish I did. I want to say I’m sorry too.
So that apartment across the hall from me will be rented to someone else, probably, in a matter of only a few weeks. With Mr. Jackson and his “friend,” I knew what I had and what I had was OK with me. Now, what I’m I gonna get? I hate the unknown.
(Photo from bjapartments.com)
A version of this story ran on Facebook on April 29th, 2014.
I think the older I’ve gotten, the more patience I have. But not every day.
There she was in the laundry room yesterday morning—this woman who lives in my building who doesn’t think I know how to do my own laundry.
“No, no, no!” she screamed after I took my clothes out of the washing machine, transferring them to my laundry basket, and then closing the washing machine lid. “You leave the lid up so others will know it’s not being used!”
“Oh, OK,” I said correcting my mistake immediately and opening the lid back up. “I’m sorry.”
I went over to a dryer and started to put my clothes inside it. I looked over at my neighbor who was standing there shaking her head at me.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Which wrist would you like me to slit?”
She looked at me in horror, clearly not understanding sarcasm.
“Maybe I’ll ask the maintenance guy to see if he has any extra rope,” I said. “Hanging would be less messy.”
With her mouth wide open, my neighbor stormed out of the laundry room. Apparently she didn’t have any laundry to do herself—just on patrol.
For good measure, I walked over to the washing machine I’d been using and closed the lid.
(Image from WordPress)
I’ve owned a couple houses in my life, but a lot of my living has been done in apartment buildings. I like that lifestyle just fine but it does come with its drawbacks. I’m having one right now in the building where I live in Covington, Kentucky.
This is not a major complaint, but if I feel the urge to write about it, that means it’s on my mind more than it should be. It’s rising to the surface more or less.
On the floor where I live, I have a couple neighbors who are very nice and friendly and all that, but they talk loud and they like to do that in the hall. One of these people is an older lady and I think she’s hard of hearing, so maybe that accounts for the loud voice. The other person is just loud by nature.
I’m not sure what prompts their loud voices in the hallway, but voices carry. I don’t think they’re doing it on purpose and they’re not doing it late at night, but they have woke me up on occasion, like last night when I went to bed a little early — around eleven. Maybe that’s why I’m writing about it today, because last night I felt annoyed by it.
Is there such a thing as hallway etiquette? Apparently. I did a Google search and found this. It covers the subject a little bit.
Now I don’t want you to think I’m blowing this out of proportion. I like where I live just fine and I’ll find a way to deal with this little problem I’m having. When I see these people, I have no plans today to yell out, “Hey, shut up you f**king a**holes!” No, that’s probably reserved for next week.
(Photo from danaalbertson.com)