Page 6 of Resisting the Grump

I say “he” because it was obvious from the junk the movers were unloading from the truck outside that the guy was not the sort of neighbor a woman would hope and pray for. Every single item I passed on my way from the sidewalk to my front door rubbed me the wrong way. The drum set was the first thing that made my stomach turn, and that was before I realized it was headed to the apartment beside mine. Then, when I was checking my mailbox, one of the movers passed by with one of those tacky model Porsches in a display container. So instead of a boy who merely liked his toys, I knew I was dealing with a boy who thought his toys were better than other people's toys.

When I got on the elevator, two of the movers wedged me into the corner so they could get the guy's Peloton upstairs, and while I'm not against people keeping fit, I knew enough spinners to know there was a good chance he was an ultra-competitive control freak. One of life's winners, in other words. Because everyone knows a person's merit is directly correlated to how quickly they can spin their legs to someone else's playlist.

And then, when I was already convinced he was going to be the worst neighbor I ever had, I stepped off the elevator, looked beyond the men with the fancy exercise bike, and laid eyes on the biggest, most pretentious cat tree I've ever seen in my life.

For a second, it threw me. Only a complete cat nut would have a cat tree like that, and I would've assumed it belonged to a crazy old lady if I hadn't seen the other stuff. So maybe it wasn't a man. Maybe it was a couple. Or an old lady and her son. I didn't know. All I knew was that I was not going to have my peaceful life disturbed by a neighbor with obnoxious habits and bad taste.

I took my time letting myself into my apartment to stretch out the assault on my senses because I hadn’t properly seethed about anything in so long, and as I wrestled with my prejudgments, I heard the moving men say something about how he, "wouldn't have pegged him as a cat guy," and my heart sank as my worst suspicions were confirmed. My new neighbor was clearly an oversized man-child with loud hobbies and at least one smelly roommate. I shuddered. I bet he was the kind of guy who wrote "fragile" on boxes that weren't even fragile.

Whatever. Best case scenario, he'd spend all his time spinning in silence and—

I let myself in just before two guys passed with "Fragile" boxes that were open on top and filled with wine. "Fucking great," I mumbled, making a beeline for the notepad I kept in the kitchen. And without wasting a moment, I wrote my new neighbor a little welcome note to make sure we wouldn't run into any trouble.

F O U R

- Oliver -

I woke up early from the light streaming in the windows and berated myself for not hanging my blackout curtains the night before. I’d just been too exhausted to even think of it.

To my credit, though, when I rambled into the living room, the first thing I noticed was that Simba's cat tree was perfectly positioned in a warm sunbeam and he had a look of satisfied contentment on his orange face.

Unfortunately, the rest of the place wasn't much to look at yet, and even though I’d moved many times, I never got used to the odd sensation of seeing the contents of my life in boxes.

There was something about it that reminded me that my life was temporary and insignificant, and while I was no more important or permanent once all my possessions were arranged just so, I found it amusing that it felt that way. It was as if having a little corner of the universe to organize made me more substantial than I was without... stuff.

Of course, that was one of the reasons I moved around so much. Because I liked that fresh start feeling, that forced curation of treasures a person has to undergo when they move.

After all, if I couldn't be ruthlessly disciplined in my own life, how could I expect others to respect my opinion?

My phone pinged in the kitchen where I'd left it charging, but I closed it again when I realized it led to a bunch of Twitter notifications about a review I'd written for an Italian place that just opened in the west end. As usual, I found it bewildering that people who were "horrified" and “disgusted” by my "unfair comments" were so ready and willing to say hateful and horrific things about me. Fortunately, I'd grown a thick skin over the years and had enough experience to know that most of these people hadn’t actually been to the restaurant. If they had, they wouldn't jeopardize their reputations defending "watery lasagna" and "pesto that wasn't fit to be jarred, much less served on a pre-theater menu."

But, ironically, moments after @PinkCrab890 accused me of being the most opinionated person on earth, I actually met the most opinionated person on earth.

I say "met," but it wasn't a face-to-face meeting. It came in the form of a letter on yellow legal pad that had been folded in neat thirds and slid under the door. If it weren't for Simba, I wouldn't have noticed it for hours, but he found it by the door and was sweeping it curiously across the floor.

I crouched down and dragged it across the floor a few times to tease his hunting instincts, even though his cockroach-eating days were ancient history. Then I picked it up and unfolded it, discovering a note written in beautiful cursive with a thick-tipped pen I imagined would've been quite satisfying to write with.

Dear Number Seven,

Welcome to the building and the fourth floor. A few quick suggestions to help you get settled:

1) Quiet hours are between 10pm and 10am.

2) Please bring your recycling to the bin on the ground floor to ease the plight of people with compromised mobility who rely on the containers at the end of the hall.

3) Please keep pets inside or on a leash at all times out of respect for neighbors who have allergies or who may be uncomfortable with animals.

4) If you notice any maintenance issues, like the blinking light in the back staircase or the troublesome latch on the entrance to the community garden, please mention them to Tony the maintenance guy, who only fixes things once everyone in the building has been inconvenienced and vocalized their dissatisfaction.

Kind Regards,

Number Eight

For a moment, I admit I was stunned. Never before had I read such a disingenuous, unwelcoming “welcome letter.” To make matters worse, Number Eight was clearly operating out of her jurisdiction. And I say “her” because of the handwriting, which I admired before I saw through to the sentiments it was sharing, and because of the palpable bitterness with which she'd spoken about Tony. She clearly should’ve signed it, “Cranky Old Wench.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why negative Number Eight felt compelled to send such a stream of unhelpful bullshit into my private space. Also, it irked me that I wasn’t even given a chance to make a pleasant first impression. I might play rude on TV, but I wasn’t a rude neighbor. And since it would be rude not to acknowledge her weird welcome, responding became an itch I couldn't help but scratch.

Dear Number Eight,

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