Autumn and I live in an old house in Minneapolis’s Seward neighborhood. The residence is divided down the middle into two rental units, and for the last year, we have dealt with two ridiculously impossible neighbors.
They smoked weed constantly. I don’t care what somebody else does with their time. I used to snort crystal meth off any flat surface for the first two years we lived here. I ascribe to a live and let live ethos.
But when your ganja smoke permeates every shared area, from the entryway to the back stairwell, I take issue. On numerous occasions, Autumn voiced her displeasure, and got pledges from our neighbors that the offending behavior would stop. It didn’t.
This house is old. Over a century old. When you share walls, you will invariably hear other people. Part of being an adult is accepting the world doesn’t have to cater to your desires, and that it’s frequently opposed to them, and indifferent at least.
Our music bothered Marcel, our female neighbor. The sound from our television bothered her. Our laughter from when we entertained guests made her apoplectic. Instead of coming over to talk, she sent texts bickering about our volume levels.
Then, in the most stunning display of passive-aggressiveness I have ever seen, she ordered two huge packages of acoustic foam tiles delivered to our unit. I put up several of them, before quitting. I blocked her number, and refused to interact anymore.
I’m forty seven years old. I know what loud, disruptive music sounds like. I also have quality stereo equipment in my basement that I’ve pieced together over twenty years for a setup I enjoy listening to. For the entirety of their being our neighbors, I didn’t use it. A full year of not playing records out of deference and respect to her needs for quiet. I compromised.
What I’ve realized is that certain people cannot be accommodated; that respect shown isn’t evenly reciprocated. I have dealt with enough of my own shit to placate people like that anymore. If you need complete quiet, you have to live alone. That isn’t my problem.
So good riddence to overbearing demands, to marijuana smoke, to passive-aggressive mind-fucks, and petty selfishness. I have the basement back, and with it, a part of my soul that I sacrificed for someone I won’t miss.
Paper Covers Rock 