My next door neighbor should be the spokesperson for the Faces of Meth campaign.

*Note: This was written before this neighbor's eviction, he was finally locked out two weeks ago and today three men are attempting to clean out his disgusting apartment.


Picture it: I’m a hot, dirty mess and I’m bringing in the last load of my belongings into my apartment just over one year ago. I’m precariously juggling A.) the last box of my shit, which is sharply jutting into one hip; B.) my eager, pulling dog; and C.) a heavy door above me, at the top of the stairs; which, of fucking course, pulls toward you. I finally get through the door, (although the box is starting to slip) and am beginning to shuffle the final steps to my apartment. Within feet of my final destination, I hear “Need any help?” I think to myself, where was this asshole the past five hours? Then I look up and see what must be a pirate. Thank fucking god this is the last of my shit.


He was more than 6-feet tall with long, scraggly, dingy brown hair and baggy clothing. His face was red, sunken and weathered, and looked to be the texture of paper. He had skin speckled with scabs, deep set eyes, and protruding cheek bones. He was wearing a bandana on his head… and a mother fucking eye patch. An eye patch! My neighbor > an eye patch.


I then picked up the lower half of my jaw off the floor, jammed it back in place, and said as politely as I could muster, “No thank you, this is the last of my things.” I shimmied my ass through the door as the box dropped to the floor, and I mentally listed the many cruel acts I have performed to have earned such karma.


Part One


Not too long after, I saw the pirate without an eye patch, but wasn’t sure which I found more disconcerting — my initial belief that this man is without one eye, or the realization that this was a person who got himself into situations in which he sometimes required an eye patch. I was soon to find the latter was the more frightening conundrum.


This pirate, sans patch, is a hoarder of sorts; and, much to the other tenant’s dismay, he insists on keeping his door wide open. His apartment is a catalogue of crap, enveloped by a tapestry of crazy, and smothered in bad news. The fact that his life is just a thin wall away from mine sends shivers down my spine.


As if the contents of his studio were not disturbing enough, he leaves random piles of crap outside his door for days at a time and has been keeping his food outside his window on his air conditioner, spoiling in the sun and spilling on the sidewalk. It’s like a trailer park garage sale within mere feet of my door. If I wasn’t too frightened to touch the sketchy stacks of waste, I’d throw the shit away myself. But clearly, he’d just find his precious treasures in the dumpster once more and bring them back to store in his dossier of rubbish. Speaking of waste, did I mention he has a woman friend?


Part Two


I eventually learned my neighbors name as a result of countless crack heads, meth dealers and crazies calling “Tim!” in haggard, raspy, desperate voices outside his window (which, I might remind you, is mere feet from my window). Tim then lets him or her in, or even better, puts a brick in the back door so creeps, scumbags and rapists can enter at their leisure. My least favorite person shouting “Tim!” in the most tiny and shrill voice imaginable, is the constantly re-appearing crack whore he let live with him during her pregnancy. That’s right: Pregnant crack whore > my neighbor. I’ve heard her screaming to be let in more times than I can count, and I have shot her evil glances more times than Ron Jeremy has shot his load on a woman’s face.


I’ve never heard the crack whore’s name; I’ve always just referred to her as “the crack whore.” She is a tiny, mousey woman, so white she’s see-through, with faded hair dyed blood red with black roots. Her face looks like she chews glass for a hobby and her eyes are black and cold. Between the two of them, these people should front the Faces of Meth campaign.


Shady, yet verbose and seemingly considerate, Tim is not the crack whore’s boyfriend, nor the baby’s father, but just someone putting a roof over her head. Once I realized she was pregnant, I almost began to pity her… almost. Me and the normal neighbor across the hall discussed whether or not we should intervene, but child protective services can’t step in until the day the child is born… which was the night before my trip to New York. I was packing and heard her screaming bloody murder on and off for hours in the next apartment. My neighbor across the hall was timing her contractions through the walls. Finally we heard an ambulance and saw nearly ten paramedics and police officers bust in and ask her about her pregnancy and possible drug use, then dramatically carry her out on a stretcher as she made a scene. She still comes around, but clearly the baby was given to a good home — not one towered with trash, and with constant creepsters doing drugs, and random early morning fist fights… or had I gotten to that?


Part Three


This morning at nine I was lying in beg, willing myself to fall back asleep. As I began to drift off, a man attempted to start his huge Ford truck with no luck. He opened the hood, frustrated, and tried once more. The diesel engine started to growl, barely running and sounding loud and wounded. I thought to myself, I cannot think of one sound that could possibly be more annoying then that right now.


“You don’t live here, you can’t park there, shut that fucking thing off,” I heard Tim yelling over the truck‘s moans as he walked aggressively over. I noticed that he had a huge band-aid taped over the entirety of his nose, like Michael Jackson wore after his nose took a tumble. He then tried to push the truck’s owner, a man wearing a Cleveland Indians cap. The Indians fan then slugged him in the face and they were at it, fists awkwardly fumbling, Tim’s long and likely lice-ridden hair flying as the man pushed him into the garage behind him. While I knew my neighbor to be a slimy, troubling man, he’s never seemed violent or provoking.


I called the police and watched from my window; it was like being invisible at a live taping of Jerry Springer. The truck owner’s friend, a short man who was missing a few teeth, attempted to stop the fighting. For a second the pushing ceased and they began yelling back and forth. Tim then kicked the truck and threw the man’s keys across the lot. After gathering his keys, the man in the Indians cap took off his glasses and ran low and like a bull, slamming directly into my neighbors torso, knocking him down. At this point, the men gave up the fight, the police arrived, and I lost interest — although I’d like to think the brawl resulted in yet another eye patch for Tim, and a new face on the meth prevention billboards.