Noisy Neighbors

 Last night, after a long, hot shower, I decided to go onto our bedroom's terrace and enjoy the cool air. I did that a lot during the height of the plague -- just enjoying the night air and asking the Big Man to get us through the worst of the pandemic. He did.

We live on an acre lot, and typically it is very quiet at night, but last night there was a voice from next door, carrying over, in a decidedly Brooklyn accent. It was our next door neighbor Carrie, who occasionally goes outside at night to have phone conversations, in a decidedly outside voice. We rarely hear her, but I guess last night the conditions were just right for voice travel. After a few minutes she went inside, and it brought me memories of far worse noisy neighbors from Wifey and my years together.

In 1985 we moved in together, to a one bedroom/one bath apartment near Dadeland Mall, in a complex called Les Chalet. It got its name from the newer buildings in the rear, which were sort of French chalet style. But the older buildings in the front were typical late 60s Miami suburban architecture.

I had moved there in 1983 with Eric -- he was starting medical school, and I law school. I met Wifey there, and a one bedroom opened up and the rent, about $450 per month, was very affordable. Plus, you could cut across a field to the Metrorail station, which I did often, to get to my clerkship jobs Downtown.

Anyway, our upstairs neighbors were a very good looking couple from Jamaica. The man always wore a beautiful suit, and the woman the same -- they were business people. When you met them during the day, they were well spoken, classy, and charming. But at night, they would have violent, yelling fights often followed by loud sex.

The soft spoken man's voice would become like a yelling Eddie Murphy -- and you'd hear dishes being broken, and furniture turned over. The first time I heard it, I went upstairs and knocked on the door, thinking maybe they were being attacked. Nope -- just the two of them, and the woman offered a contrite "Sorry." But the violent noises would continue -- a few nights per week.

One time my Mom came to stay for a few days. Wifey was a sound sleeper, who had a very early job and slept through anything. I guess I got used to it, but during one session I went to the living room sleeper sofa. Mom was bolt upright: "David -- how can you TAKE this?" I told her I got used to it.

I resorted to leaving notes on the door saying they ought to feel ashamed at their behavior. Nothing worked -- the management just sort of shrugged their corporate shoulders, and told me to call Metro police.

And then, happily, they moved out -- replaced by a quiet couple. Wifey and I moved out when we bought our first house, in September of '86.

Our second house was on 1/3 of an acre, and surrounded by quiet neighbors, though we learned after D1 was born that right next door was an infamous family -- the Finjes. They were from Curacao -- a Dutch accented couple and teen daughter. One day my friend Jose, who later stole from my firm and was disbarred for stealing from clients, came over to watch a Fins game with Mike and me. His firm represented the Finjes -- everyone had heard that the teen son had been arrested for molesting toddlers in a church daycare. Jose said they lived there -- 30 feet from my little girl toddler's window!

No -- I told Jose he was mistaken -- no teen boy lived there. He explained it was because he was in JAIL awaiting trial! Sure enough, the following month the trial took place, and Bobby was acquitted, but the jury sent a note to SA Janet Reno that they thought Bobby HAD done something wrong -- and even though they saw reasonable doubt, "the state should keep an eye on him." Stupid F ing jurors.

I told Wifey we'd be moving -- and sure enough, the next day our block was choked with TV trucks and helicopters overhead.

Luckily -- the family high tailed it out -- back to Curacao, or maybe Holland. I guess Bobby didn't just want to go back to Killian High given what had happened.

Then came Andrew, and we moved out until 1994, and our friend Arnold bought the house behind us and to the side, to sell it for a profit. He did -- to Jamie, a Chilean Jewish guy and his family. They loved to party.

It was nice at first -- Wifey and I would put D1 and D2 to bed, and go dance salsa from their loud sound system. But when the parties extended to the wee hours, and D1 couldn't sleep, it wasn't so nice.

I went over one Monday morning, around 3, and asked Jamie to turn it down. He laughed at me -- told me gringos were too uptight, and invited me in. No -- I had to be in Court in a few hours -- please turn down the music. Again -- nothing worked.

One Saturday night the party went until Sunday at 3am. I was up early anyway, probably at 8. I went over and banged on the door loudly until a sleeping Jamie came to answer. "David -- it's 8 am!" I invited him to go to coffee, in my cheerful American way. He declined -- I think the parties got a little quieter after that, and they sold the house after a divorce. Another neighbor told me Jamie's wife decided to continue the partying with Jamie's cousin at another house one evening. I kind of felt happy to hear that.

So all of that had to do with my desire to have a larger, quieter property. I usually do -- Brooklyn Carrie an uncommon annoyance.

But it also tells me I can NEVER live in a condo. People are great -- from a distance.