my neighbor

Shirley (that’s not her name though the name suits her) is my neighbor.  She doesn’t read this blog as she doesn’t own a computer or TV.  In fact, she’s part of the 25% of the world’s population that doesn’t own a cell phone, and that’s including all those really poor countries and remote islands.

I would guess she is about my age.  She sounds educated.  Is articulate.  Has a normal-looking boyfriend of many years (which is more than I can say).  And is very nice, though strange.  She lives in another era entirely.

She also has a habit of leaving things in the hallway.  Wet shoes.  Umbrellas.  Bags of who knows what.  I (and others) have asked her in the past to please keep her belongings inside her apartment.  She remembers for a while and then forgets.

Yesterday morning, around 7:45, as I am leaving my apartment, I see a white plastic bag of garbage and some black rubbery thing outside her door.  She’s a nocturnal person and gets up late in the day, so I tell the doorman, as I don't want to wake her.  That, and I'd rather not get involved with her directly.

At 6:30 pm, the bag of garbage is still there.  I tell the super and he knocks on her door to ask her to remove it.

Later, she sees me in the lobby and asks if I were the one who ratted her out (not her words) and I own up.  She politely tells me she is upset that I didn’t “slip a note under” her door.  I tell her I’ve spoken to her in the past and it hasn’t worked, so I told the doorman.

Then she starts to tell me about her suicidal sister, and that I don’t understand how difficult this is for her and that unlike me she doesn’t rely on pharmaceuticals.  Huh?  I stop her there and ask her what she means.  “I remember you telling me once that you took tranquilizers after 911.”  I think I did take Xanax but I remind her that 911 was 12 years ago, and then I wonder, why am I engaging her in conversation at all and why did I ever tell her anything so personal.

This morning I get up and there’s an envelope under my door.  Inside is a nicely written note from Shirley imploring me again to let her know (and not the super) if I am bothered by any of her actions.

I remember the Robert Frost poem, Mending Fences.  In this case, good fences do indeed make good neighbors.