Okay, let’s play a little game. Let’s try to figure out if my new neighbor reads this column. I realize this seems way more entertaining for me than it does for you, but stick with me— there’s a method to my madness.
So I think my new neighbor is an asshole. Once again, he’s managed to wake me up in the middle of the night. It’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m lying in bed listening to him and his friends attempt to kick in the front door of his apartment. It seems he’s had himself a wide variety of cocktails this evening, and in the process, he misplaced his keys. He must have accidentally set them down next to the ice luge off of which he was doing Jägermeister shots, or near the toilet that inevitably followed. Donkey.
My neighbor is what you might call spunky; he’s like a Jack Russell terrier after a bump. He’s in his mid-to-late twenties, he’s a hair taller than short, and he’s got a hard-to-make-out accent that leaves you smelling Republican. He loves college football, he all-too-frequently uses the word “bro,” and if you look at him closely when he’s standing still, you can actually see him vibrate. You know the type: they hang out in herds in the Financial District drinking beer, quoting movies, and high-fiving one another. “No, you can’t handle the truth!” “Boo-yaah!” Donkeys.
Discouraged by his inability to “unlock” the door in his first two attempts, his third is so thunderous that it actually knocks an empty beer bottle off the desk in my bedroom. (Like I don’t have my own maturity issues.) Feeling a strong need to share my opinion on this matter with him, I climb out of bed, throw open my apartment door, and do my best to look pissed off while standing in my underwear.
After a brief but explosive conversation whose details I will spare you, my neighbor (now apparently concerned he’s being rude) decides we should all be best friends and begins introducing me to his “boys.” Yeah, thanks Captain Morgan — I’d love to shake hands and bump chests with you guys right now, but I’m a little underdressed and sleepy. Don’t worry, though: I’ll be sure to fire off the appropriate Facebook friend requests first thing in the morning.
With his apartment door now off its hinges and my neighbor’s band of brothers safely inside feeding on late-night pizza, I assume the show is over. I close my door, climb into bed, and attempt to fall back asleep. Unfortunately for me, it seems the show is literally just getting started. Do you like to play Guitar Hero? My neighbor does. Apparently it helps him take the edge off after a long evening of booze and B&E. Donkey.
For the next 40 minutes, I’m serenaded by a bunch of frat boys attempting to both play and sing Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me.” Lucky for me, the removal of my neighbor’s front door has vastly improved the acoustics in our common hallway, allowing me the opportunity to fully appreciate the subtle nuances of their performance.
So what the hell am I supposed to do? Should I get out of bed again, go knock on what’s left of the guy’s door, and punch him in the face? Am I supposed to call the police? Look, I’d love to go over there and choke the living shit out of this kid, but you know what? At one point in my life, I was him. (Okay, for the record, I was never him — but you get my point.) Instead, I’m just going to put this little plea out there and hope for the best. Dude: you finally have yourself a big-boy job and a big-boy apartment. I think it’s time to start acting like a big boy. To quote the great Dean Wormer from the movie Animal House, “Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son.” Boo-yaah!
Michael Diskin can be reached at mdiskin@stuffatnight.com
