The Jerk from Christmas

[Be warned: This blog post is sponsored by the F-word.]

In good news, I am minus a neighbor.

Remember the jackass from last Christmas, the one who thought that screaming at his girlfriend and throwing her cell phone down the hall was a wonderful way to start the holiday? He continued to exhibit his tenuous grasp of civil behaviour through the winter and into the spring.

For example, one evening, when I came home from work, I ran into a guy trying to haul a large box out of the building. I held the door for him. As he worked his way out of the door, another guy approached us with much purpose and passion in his expression. He flung open the adjoining door.

"Fuck you, man! Fuck you!" he yelled at the first guy. "You don't muthafuckin' bring that muthafucka here, man! I told you to bring it to that muthafuckin' other place!"

"Fuck you, too, man!" replied the first guy. "Don't you start this shit!"

"Fuck you!" the second guy yelled. "Get that fucking thing outta here!"

I really didn't quite understand much of the exchange beyond that because they seemed to have substituted every possible conjugation of "fuck" for actual words. That, and I wanted to get as far away from them as soon as possible. The "concierge" at the desk in the lobby did nothing.

After I left the scene, I checked my mailbox, then headed for the elevator. A young woman was loading up one elevator with boxes and some Ikea grade furniture. People tend to do this when they move in or out. I let her go on ahead and caught the next elevator.

When the next elevator arrived, I got on. Just before the door closed, who should squeeze in but Mr. Fuck You, minus his shirt and showing his underwear. He was now on his phone yelling "that muthafucka! I fucking told him don't come fucking 'round here with that fucking shit and acting all crazy and shit!" He pause and I heard some emphatic noises on the other end of his line. "Well, fuck you, too!" he broke in over the noises. "Fuck that shit! No! I fucking said come and get his fucking ass."

He didn't push a floor button. As the elevator kept going up and up and up and he still didn't push a floor button, the sickening revelation came to me that this was the dude from Christmas. Sure enough, he barged off the elevator the second the doors opened, and "fucked" his way down the hall, stopping at the door where the Christmas incident had taken place. A buddy of his stood in the open door way.

"Go get that muthafucka," Mr. Fuck You yelled at the buddy. "He don't fucking know what he's doing." He threw in another "fuck," just for effect.

Back at the elevator, the woman with the Ikea furniture turned out to be moving onto our floor. She was unloading her things into a pile in the hallway while holding the elevator door open with her leg.

"Nice fucking welcome wagon we have for her," I thought. "Welcome to the fucking neighborhood!"

Since I would have to pass Mr. Fuck You and his buddy on the way to my own door, I stalled by being neighborly and holding the elevator door open for her. Mr. Fuck You and his buddy were still shouting "fuck" at one another, so I tiptoed past them, hoping to escape recognition as one of the "Sarah Palin muthafuckas" presumably calling the cops during the Christmas outburst (again: Sarah Palin?).

"This guy clearly has anger management issues," I later told the Gentleman Caller.

Inside my apartment, I noticed that my garbage was starting to overpower my Glade Vanilla scented air freshener. Also, I was a little curious and maybe even a bit concerned about the woman at the elevator. So, I gathered up the trash bag and headed back down the hallway, past the Fuck You apartment, to the garbage chute.

The woman was now moving her things from a pile outside of the elevators to a pile at her front door. Just as I had feared, her front door was the same as Mr. Fuck You's. This, incidentally, was not the same girl from Christmas. Nor, incidentally, did Mr. Fuck You lift a finger to help her or even acknowledge her presence. Maybe she was just helping the guy from the lobby. Maybe I was mistaken and she was moving in to the apartment directly across the hall.

In any case, I didn't see her again, but I did see Mr. Fuck You with other women. Never the same one, of course. He probably fancied himself the real ladies' man although he clearly hated women.

The last time that I saw him, I was again coming home from work. I was on the phone with Gentleman Caller, when I stepped off of the elevator to the loud crash of young men talking in fluent fuck.

"Shit," I thought, heck, I may have even said it into the phone.

"What's that?" asked Gentleman Caller, on the other end of the line.

"I'm on my floor, so take a guess," I said.

"Ah, your friend the wife-beater."

"Yep."

Mr. Fuck You's door was open, emitting a near visible cloud of pungent smoke. One of his buddies, shirtless, underwear showing, baseball hat perched backwards on his head, was leaning against the doorway. Mr. Fuck You, shirtless, underwear showing, sat on the floor just inside of the door, disassembling something. I didn't look too closely.

As I passed, Friend of Fuck You paused, mid-sentence and said -- I swear -- "how you doin'?"

You know the tone, too. That one that says, "hey baby, what's your sign, want a hotdog with that shake, I want to fuck you because you have a cunt, and you can't resist my dastardly charm."

I almost fell over laughing. What a perfect cliche': The words, the tone, the way he slipped it into the middle of his sentence so reflexively, without even registering anything about me except "female," and there, in the hall. Who cruises the halls at an apartment complex? Does that actually work? Or is he of the ilk that thinks, "hit on anything with a pulse because eventually someone is going to be desperate enough?" Yep, a couple of prize ponies right there.

Thanks to the stairwell, I didn't share a wall with the Fuck You household, so I did not get the benefit of his vast repertoire of profanity. I did, however, get the benefit of that near visible cloud of smoke. Oooh boy, did I get the benefit of that near visible cloud of smoke! The whole floor got the benefit of that near visible cloud of smoke. I don't think anyone would have passed a drug test while he was here because we all inhaled, even if we didn't actually smoke.

This didn't really bother me. In fact, I thought it was kinda funny (probably due to that near visible cloud of smoke). I've got nothing against pot, being related to a couple of 'heads and having some fond memories of second-hand highs from concerts back in the '80s. I don't smoke myself because it makes me aware of being stupid, but I don't begrudge anyone else their stupidity.

The neighbors, on the other hand, had a fit. One day when the cloud of smoke was actually visible, I ran into someone who lived at the far end of the hall. High and tight haircut, blue sweatshirt, erect posture, he carried himself like one of the many service people who live in our building. So, he may have had a real concern about failing a drug test from second-hand smoke.

"Do you smell that?" he said.

"Yep," I said. "Rather frequently, in fact."

"Where's it coming from?" he asked.

"Same place as usual," I said.

"It's pretty heavy," said the guy. "I'm going to report it."

"Good luck," I said.

He headed back to his apartment.

A few weeks later, we all received an official note under our doors from management. "It has been brought to our attention that the smell of marijuana smoke is heavy on your floor," the note said. "We would like to remind you that, per your lease, illegal activities in your apartment can lead to your eviction."

This they are concerned about. Smoke a joint in your apartment and management threatens to evict you. Threaten a woman in the hallway and management says they can't to anything about it; and you, the concerned neighbor, should mind your own business.

They must have nailed him because, the next week, he had an eviction notice on his door. Shortly thereafter, furniture appeared piled outside of his door. A day or two after that, he and a few of his friends -- again, all speaking in fluent fuck -- hauled the furniture away. Within the week, the smell coming from the apartment was of fresh paint, a telltale sign of an impending new occupant.

He's out there somewhere. When he starts abusing yet another woman, I hope his next neighbor has more courage than I and calls the police.