Neighbors. Everybody has them. I have a few myself. There is the older lady next door, whose toenails Otto is obsessed with. And then there is the artist lady two windows down who is only seen wearing white gowns. Don’t forget the couple down the hall who oftentimes takes on the duty of sitting other people’s dogs by simply locking them out into the hallway. But one surely stands out amongst the people I share a trash chute with.
My immediate next door neighbor and the single biggest detriment to the long-term value of my real estate investment. The guy works from home and can’t be seen or heard of for weeks at a time. Then one night, he heads to one of our local watering holes and goes big. And by goes big, I mean he comes back at about two in the morning with a group of other crazy people who then accompany his guitar solos and smoke on his rooftop patio, which coincidentally is not a patio at all but rather the roof in front of my living room window, until the wee hours of the morning. While this occurrence usually wakes me up, reminds me why I don’t smoke and robs me of any level of privacy, I just can’t get myself to be truly mad.
I mean how cool is it that the guy brings back a bunch of strangers from the bars to sing songs in his apartment. While I might never be able to sell my loft, at least I have a funny story to tell about my neighbor. Who, no doubt, will still be my neighbor and probably the president, founder and host of the Pearl District Choir Club.