F O U R
- Oliver -
I woke up early from the light streaming in the windows and berated myself for not hanging my blackout curtains the night before. I’d just been too exhausted to even think of it.
To my credit, though, when I rambled into the living room, the first thing I noticed was that Simba's cat tree was perfectly positioned in a warm sunbeam and he had a look of satisfied contentment on his orange face.
Unfortunately, the rest of the place wasn't much to look at yet, and even though I’d moved many times, I never got used to the odd sensation of seeing the contents of my life in boxes.
There was something about it that reminded me that my life was temporary and insignificant, and while I was no more important or permanent once all my possessions were arranged just so, I found it amusing that it felt that way. It was as if having a little corner of the universe to organize made me more substantial than I was without... stuff.
Of course, that was one of the reasons I moved around so much. Because I liked that fresh start feeling, that forced curation of treasures a person has to undergo when they move.
After all, if I couldn't be ruthlessly disciplined in my own life, how could I expect others to respect my opinion?
My phone pinged in the kitchen where I'd left it charging, but I closed it again when I realized it led to a bunch of Twitter notifications about a review I'd written for an Italian place that just opened in the west end. As usual, I found it bewildering that people who were "horrified" and “disgusted” by my "unfair comments" were so ready and willing to say hateful and horrific things about me. Fortunately, I'd grown a thick skin over the years and had enough experience to know that most of these people hadn’t actually been to the restaurant. If they had, they wouldn't jeopardize their reputations defending "watery lasagna" and "pesto that wasn't fit to be jarred, much less served on a pre-theater menu."
But, ironically, moments after @PinkCrab890 accused me of being the most opinionated person on earth, I actually met the most opinionated person on earth.
I say "met," but it wasn't a face-to-face meeting. It came in the form of a letter on yellow legal pad that had been folded in neat thirds and slid under the door. If it weren't for Simba, I wouldn't have noticed it for hours, but he found it by the door and was sweeping it curiously across the floor.
I crouched down and dragged it across the floor a few times to tease his hunting instincts, even though his cockroach-eating days were ancient history. Then I picked it up and unfolded it, discovering a note written in beautiful cursive with a thick-tipped pen I imagined would've been quite satisfying to write with.
Dear Number Seven,
Welcome to the building and the fourth floor. A few quick suggestions to help you get settled:
1) Quiet hours are between 10pm and 10am.
2) Please bring your recycling to the bin on the ground floor to ease the plight of people with compromised mobility who rely on the containers at the end of the hall.
3) Please keep pets inside or on a leash at all times out of respect for neighbors who have allergies or who may be uncomfortable with animals.
4) If you notice any maintenance issues, like the blinking light in the back staircase or the troublesome latch on the entrance to the community garden, please mention them to Tony the maintenance guy, who only fixes things once everyone in the building has been inconvenienced and vocalized their dissatisfaction.
Kind Regards,
Number Eight
For a moment, I admit I was stunned. Never before had I read such a disingenuous, unwelcoming “welcome letter.” To make matters worse, Number Eight was clearly operating out of her jurisdiction. And I say “her” because of the handwriting, which I admired before I saw through to the sentiments it was sharing, and because of the palpable bitterness with which she'd spoken about Tony. She clearly should’ve signed it, “Cranky Old Wench.”
For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why negative Number Eight felt compelled to send such a stream of unhelpful bullshit into my private space. Also, it irked me that I wasn’t even given a chance to make a pleasant first impression. I might play rude on TV, but I wasn’t a rude neighbor. And since it would be rude not to acknowledge her weird welcome, responding became an itch I couldn't help but scratch.
Dear Number Eight,
Usually when I move to a new building, someone brings me a pie to welcome me to the neighborhood. So imagine my surprise when I found your bullshit rules shoved under my door. I'm impressed you took the time to write them out so neatly, as if your penmanship might keep me from seeing through the fact that not only are these rules totally made up, but you're operating outside your jurisdiction. Don't worry, though. I like naughty girls. I'm actually inviting some over tonight. Figured an orgy would be the best way to break in my new bed. You're welcome to stop by if your chastity belt isn't wound too tight. It's BYOB and the party starts at 10:30.
If, however, you're staying in tonight to write nasty letters to other neighbors and innocents who haven't even had a chance to offend you yet, good luck with that.
I sincerely hope they're more appreciative of your childish nonsense than I am.
Your ungrateful new neighbor with the big, loud jackhammer,
Number Seven
I stared at the note when I was done, wondering if I should sign my name. Then again, I was pretty sure I didn't want to be on a first-name basis with the insufferable bitch, so maybe it would be better to leave it at orgy and hammering jokes and hope she got the message that I wouldn't be bossed around by a spiteful animal hater.
Then I got online and ordered the bookcase I'd been meaning to buy because I was suddenly in the mood for a little DIY.