Neighbors
In the city, good deadbolts make good neighbors.
I was reminded of that this evening, as I was busily dismantling furniture in preparation for my move and there was a knock at the door.
Earlier someone had buzzed me and I couldn't understand what they were mumbling into the intercom, so I didn't buzz them in. Which is what happens when I'm not expecting a gentleman caller.
So later when there was a tap at my door, I thought, OK, here we go again.
I opened it to a young man in army fatigues who looked a little bigger than me and a lot more agitated.
"Yes?" I said, eyebrow arched.
"I'm locked out," he huffed.
Well, that's informative.
"Can I climb through your window onto the fire escape?"
(I share a fire escape with the next door flat he was claiming to be locked out of.)
Without hesitation I answered: "Um, no."
He looked shocked. His color rose.
"You don't believe I live here?"
"Look," I said, "I'm kinda busy."
And I quietly closed the door on him.
Am I a bad neighbor or what? The worst, right?
I mean, the kid's locked out and all I'd have to do is let him come in and climb out through my window, and... what? Murder his ex-girlfriend sleeping next door, right? With my luck. She finally thought she'd gotten away from him, fleeing all the way from Biloxi, Mississippi to start a new life in Boston. And then the douchebag next door let him in through the bathroom window.
Uh, no thank you.
Seriously. I mean, I wasn't going to get into it with him — why would I? — the burden of proof is not on me. Why should I believe he lives there? I don't know him from Adam. And, you know, you want me to open up, romance me a little. Tell me a story. Give me a reason to believe.
Because, you know what? Maybe I don't want you in my apartment, even if you do live next door. Maybe I'm the serial killer.
Maybe it would have been easier to just let him have his way with me, but looking at him and with my apartment in the state it's in, it would definitely have been an ordeal — I'd have to move furniture to get him out the one window with the fire escape we shared — and I can guarantee you he'd have broken something on his way out — he had "oaf" written all over him.
And there was something in the attitude that was off-putting. Like it's all the sudden my fault you can't get into your apartment. Call maintenance — they have a master key, bitch. That's what they're there for.
Now, if you think I've hardened my heart living in the city too long, let me tell you I can imagine a number of scenarios where I might have been more helpful, and one or two in which I definitely would have been: trade out the fatigues for a pair of bright red old-school gym shorts and nothing else (maybe tube socks), and look like, I dunno, Ben Cohen — you're in like flynn.
Hopefully, once he's figured out all he has to do is call maintenance and he gets back into his place to murder his unsuspecting ex-girlfriend, he won't climb out onto the fire escape, creep in through my window and hack me into little pieces, too.
I have two more nights in this flat, and I'd like to make it out of here alive.
I just want to say two words to you: Second Amendment.
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You did the right thing, Mike!
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