So last night was a bit of an adventure for me in that the long arm of the law paid a 2 AM visit to our apartment.
I pretty much sleep through all manner of natural disaster and I wouldn’t have even know about it were it not for the cheese I ingested when I went out for dinner with my dad*. We went for Greek food and as is our ritual, before we dug into the Souvlaki and Gyros, we ordered a plate of that crazy stemming cheese that they cook by dumping Oozo on it and lighting it on fire. If for some reason you have never tried this, I highly recommend it as it tastes of a salty delicious that is unparelleled by other snack food.
Anyway, after about 4 hours of sleep (I went to bed early because I was exhausted), the booze-soaked cheese seemed to have had enough of my stomach and roused me out of a sound slumber to pay a visit to the facilities. As I threw the blankets off me, I heard Boy talking. Like a logical person, I assumed that the boy was spending his evening playing video games online with some of his workmates so I thought nothing of it as I went strolling into the living room. Where I found him standing. With two flesh and blood cops.
It was at this time I became keenly aware of my appearance. My hair was a mess, fluffy on one side and flat on the other. My face was dotted with emergency Clearsil. My boobs were just going in whichever direction they choose. And, oh yeah, I was not wearing any pants**.
As it turns out, Boy had heard two loud banging noises come from the apartment upstairs, so out of concern for the tenant’s life, he called the cops and they came to check it out, at which time they found me pantless. While I’m sure they’ve seen worse and I know it could have certainly been more embarassing for me if say, I had been wearing a giant clown costume or a ball-gag like I was expecting the gimp from Pulp Fiction to show up, this was a disconcerting event because it felt like something right out of a fever dream. And not a good sexy “Why how can I help you officer?” kind of way, but in an “Oh God, I’ve shown up in the middle of a police interrogation with no pants” kind of way. Which it was. In real life.
So needless to say, even after the cops informed us that the banging was actually just the result of an old building issue, I had a hard time falling asleep.
Not that I blame Boy for calling because I totally don’t. Just six days after I moved to the city, my neighbour from down the street was killed and dismembered by her creepy meth addict husband***, so I completely believe that calling the cops when you hear something suspicious is a good idea. However, the whole thing really got me thinking about how I don’t really know my neighbours at all.
There’s Large Dog Woman who lives across the hall and often times leaves her keys in the door (the only conversations I have ever had with her are when I’ve knocked on her door to return the keys). There’s Tiny Grandma Lady who sometimes checks in on Large Dog Woman’s dog when she’s out of town. And then there are The Bitchersons, an angry gay couple who live next door and enjoy slamming doors and having screaming matches at odd times of the day. But do I know these people’s names? Could I pick them out of a lineup if I had to? Probably not.
It seems kind of weird to me that I can live in such close proximity to other people and yet have no idea who they are or anything about them (aside from one of The Bitchersons’s recreational enjoyment of twinkies).
Do you know any of your neighbours or are they strangers to you?
*Not my mom. Although I’m told she is at home wearing the face daily.
** Well technically I was wearing Boy’s stolen Bulldog print boxers but they’re mini and don’t really constitute pants.
*** This also resulted in a number of my friends referring to my area as “Torso Alley” and refusing to come down to visit because they somehow seemed to believe that “crazy-methhead” was a contageous ailment. 😦