Neighborly behavior

This post is going to make me feel old and cranky.

We have new neighbors. They are no more than three or four years younger than me. But it feels like a much bigger gap. Brandon and I were without upstairs neighbors in our duplex for a couple months. Our old neighbors, who once ran us a $150 electric bill after plugging their dryer into the power socket clearly marked with our address in the shared basement, moved out over the summer and took their giant dog with them. We danced for joy. No more late-night games of fetch being played overhead our living room; no more electricity thieves (AEP sided with us, by the way).

Then, at the beginning of October, two OSU students moved in. They seemed alright; we were willing to let go of the fact that one of them drives an electric blue clunker with a ridiculous spoiler. However, it became immediately clear that, as bad as our former neighbors were, they obviously did not use whatever room lies above our bedroom. These guys? They use it. A lot.

I got used to the new source of noise pretty easily, until last night. We went to bed around 11:30, although at first I thought I’d never fall asleep because there was this crazy bass rhythm coming through the ceiling. It stopped long enough for us to fall asleep, but after midnight I woke up again. The music had started again, and had gotten louder. After a few minutes I walked up the stairs to knock on their door. It turns out they don’t have a door leading into their place; I could have just walked right up the steps into their living room. If I wanted to get shot in the face.

I went back downstairs and dragged Brandon along for back up. Together we stood, pounding on the walls from the stair well, shouting “Hey!” until one of them (not the one with the douche car) poked his head out and stared at us.

“Hi!” I said relatively brightly. “I’m your downstairs neighbor. Can you turn your music off?”

“Or down,” hinted Brandon politely.

“Or… down,” I repeated.

Our neighbor nodded, and the music went at half volume. We fell back asleep, but when we woke up this morning around 7:30, the music was still playing. I could hear the familiar sound of fake plastic drum sticks beating fake plastic drum heads. They’d been playing Rock Band for eight hours straight.

I so would have done that a couple years ago, in their defense. Just probably not on a Monday night. Good God.


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