The Neighbors
Nonfiction by Bob Chikos
Josh was the neighbor from hell.
After Aileen and I married, we bought a tiny condo on the third floor of an aging building – the only thing we could afford on our non-profit and childcare salaries. During the 13 years we – and eventually our baby – were there, the apartment across the hall hosted a carousel of neighbors: the immigrants from Poland who left when the wife became homesick, the young couple who moved away as soon as they could afford a house, the man who kept to himself, then disappeared one night, leaving a steady stream of creditors knocking on our door asking if we knew what happened to him.
And then there was Josh.
Whenever the apartment was up for rent, I’d spy prospective renters in the parking lot from my window. One day I saw a real estate agent escort a middle-aged couple who had pulled up in a Mercedes. Wow, this recession must be worse than I thought!
I listened through the stairwell door as the agent gushed about its features. “As you can see, it’s close to the park, and within walking distance of a grocery store.”
Within a week, a moving truck was in the lot. I was happy we’d be getting someone a bit high-brow in our building, but I couldn’t figure out why they’d want to live there.
My wife and I liked to get on good terms with each new neighbor by welcoming them with cookies. The night we planned to bake, death metal blared through the walls. As I headed out to ask them to turn it down, it stopped, followed by a door slamming and the sound of footsteps clomping down the stairwell.
Head-banging middle-aged rich people?
I looked out my window. Instead of the couple in the Mercedes, I saw a young man, about 18, with long curly brown hair and a white tank top jump into the passenger side of a red Miata before it sped off.
The next few days consisted of more death metal, more doors slamming, questionably aged females darting in and out of the building, and mysterious cars showing up for minutes at a time.
One night, a sweaty, sniffling, lanky young man knocked on our door, asking for Josh. “Across the hall,” I said.
And that’s how I learned his name.
After a week, an ambulance arrived and carted Josh away, as his glassy eyes gazed indifferently into the night sky.
Two days later, I heard feet storming up the stairs. “God you’re stubborn!” a voice echoed, “You’re out of rehab less than two weeks and you’re going right back in!”
I looked through the peephole and saw the middle-aged man fish a set of keys from his pocket. Josh looked at my door, as I stood motionless, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to see movement through the peephole. Within a few minutes, the man walked out of the apartment, hugging armfuls of clothes, as Josh shuffled behind.
Over the next few months, Josh’s regular visits to rehab were our reprieve, but we always knew he’d be back.
Even before Josh moved in, we had plans to move. I took on graduate school to become a special education teacher. By my last semester, I student taught every weekday, attended class two nights a week, and worked 32 hours each weekend. I was away from home every Friday morning to Sunday afternoon. I hated leaving her and our four-year-old by themselves, but I had to get through the year if we wanted to make it out of there.
When I was gone, I’d get calls from my wife.
“Josh nearly burned down the apartment. I smelled smoke so I called 911. The paramedics found him passed out on his kitchen floor. He was trying to cook bacon with a fork over an open flame.”
“I heard screaming next door so I called 911. They hauled Josh away in an ambulance. His foot was all cut up from kicking his toilet until it was shards.”
“Marty’s going to sleep with me tonight,” she said, referring to our toddler. “He’s scared from all the screaming next door.”
Another night, when I was home, the screaming hit fever pitch, and I called 911. I listened through the door and watched through the peephole as the paramedics met Josh at the door.
“We had a call there might be someone who needs help. You all right, son? You been drinking a little bit?”
“A little,” Josh said.
“You look like you might need to have a seat. Why don’t you sit on the floor?”
The paramedics assisted Josh to the ground, then he reclined to his back.
“We’ve been here before, Josh. I’m going to need you to blow into this.”
Several silent seconds.
“Two-eight?! Boy, you’re lucky to be alive!”
Over the next few minutes, I heard the paramedics cart Josh away. As they carried him down the stairs, I opened my door and saw a policeman.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“Yeah, we’ve been here several times,” he said.
“I know. What’s it going to take to get him out of here?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much that can be done. They’ll take him to the hospital, then he’ll be released. We’ll probably be here again in a week or so.”
“Can the homeowner’s association evict him?”
“No,” he said, smiling and shaking his head in frustration. “They have no authority over this.”
There’s nothing we can do?”
“Well, not unless you’re willing to press charges,” he said as if pressing charges were the same thing as levitating.
“Yeah, we’ll press charges.”
“You’re willing to come to court?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yeah, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Aileen and I made a statement. The next day, we typed out a longer version of Josh’s history to submit.
--
Josh became the talk of our building and everyone had a story. We pieced together that Josh’s loaded, yet frustrated, parents couldn’t wait to get rid of him, so they got the apartment for him as soon as he turned 18. He didn’t work and couldn’t drive, so he’d sit in his apartment all day and all night, watching movies. Barbara, an older busybody on the first floor, had somehow finagled Josh’s dad’s number and said she’d call him from time to time to snitch. She gladly shared the number with me.
I finally finished school and got my first teaching assignment. The first week, like any new teacher, I was a bundle of nerves. Leaving for work at 6 AM on my third day, I opened my front door to see the contents of a garbage bag, mostly fast food packages, strewn throughout the stairwell - corn and mashed potatoes in a Chili’s To Go box, sauce dripping out of Chinese food containers, greasy pizza boxes with small, opened tubs of marinara sauce.
I called the number Barbara had given me and waited for Josh’s mom or dad to answer. It went straight to voicemail.
“This is your son’s neighbor,” I yelled. “Thanks for making our lives a living hell! We live in fear of him burning down our building and today he threw garbage all over our stairwell. Some of us have to work for a living and I don’t have time to clean up your kid’s mess.” Before I hung up, I delivered my final blow. “Thanks for giving us your problem.”
When I came home that night, the mess had been cleaned, although the stains in the carpeted stairway never went away – a permanent reminder of that week.
A week later, I saw another young man move into Josh’s apartment. From my window, I got a good look at him. Baggy jeans, flat bill hat, Boston Celtics jersey, showing off two full sleeves of tats.
Great, now there are two of them.
The plan had been to wait until I earned tenure before we moved. I didn’t want to risk buying a forever home in a community, especially in the late-2000’s housing market, only to lose my job in a year or two. But now I was really getting nervous. Our once humble-but-earnest nest was turning into a drug den. I feared our son getting in the crosshairs of drug action.
It actually got a bit quiet after a while.
He’s probably the mule. Getting the drugs because Josh can’t drive.
Headed for the library one day, I saw the new guy, smoking in the parking lot, near my car.
“Hey, I’ve seen you around,” he said, “but we haven’t met.” He extended his hand, “I’m Anthony.”
“Hi, I’m Bob,” I said, meeting his hand. “Nice to meet you.” After we shook, I secretly wiped my hand on my pants. I scurried off before he could try to make me his next customer.
I’d see Anthony frequently in the parking lot after that, always smoking. I’d keep my distance, but give him a nod and a smile.
While the building had been quieter lately, Josh eventually had another outburst. Paramedics carted him away, but by the next day, he was home.
Going out to shop that afternoon, I walked to my car. Anthony spotted me. “Sorry about the noise last night.”
“It’s all right,” I said, always trying to be peaceable.
“No, it’s not all right. It’s like living with a baby. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” He dragged on his cigarette and exhaled. “I don’t know if you know what’s going on, but Josh is an addict. I am, too. I’ve got a daughter, three years old, I haven’t seen her in six months. I’m not allowed to until I’ve been sober for a lot longer, and Josh keeps trying to bring that crap into the apartment.” He looked away and shook his head. “It is so hard to stay away from that stuff, but I’m managing so far.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never met someone who was an admitted addict. “Why do you live with him?”
“His parents let me live there rent free to keep an eye on him. I work, but I can’t afford my own place. Not yet.”
He told me his story: how his using became out of control, how it had become unsafe for him to be around his girlfriend or daughter, how he lost everything and became homeless when family member after family member and friend after friend could no longer allow him to stay at their place because he had repeatedly violated their trust, how he had met Josh at Narcotics Anonymous and they both realized they needed help, how Anthony needed a home and Josh needed a keeper.
They were two battered, imperfect, sick souls and they were probably each other’s last hope.
--
On my drive to the store, I reflexively turned on the radio – my own habit. Within a block, I turned it off. I thought about Anthony. He was really, sincerely, trying to do something that was harder than anything I’d ever done.
I thought about Josh. He was drowning in addiction and he could easily be dead at eighteen – just when life starts.
I thought of Josh’s parents. Maybe they were doing everything they had been advised to do.
I thought about my own son. I thought of the choices he could make in his future and how Aileen and I would always, always support him.
I thought about how Anthony was helping to transform our building back to a safe place.
--
At the store, I bought chocolate chips. That night we made cookies for our neighbors.
Aileen and I knocked on their door. Anthony answered.
“Hey guys,” Anthony said.
“We made some cookies and thought you guys would like some.”
“Thanks,” he said, accepting the plate. “Come on in.”
I hadn’t been in the apartment since the Polish family had moved. It was a typical bachelor pad: a couch with several ass-grooves, a PlayStation hooked up to a big screen TV, and a floor lamp brightly illuminating one corner. Through the patio door, I saw Josh on the balcony, smoking. He nodded and gave us a small wave.
Anthony turned to us and spoke quietly. “Josh told me about the times you called 911. I know he won’t say it to you, but you saved his life and he is thankful.”
Life was certainly more serene while Anthony was there. After several months, they moved. Barbara said she heard Josh’s parents found a small house for them, 20 minutes away, purportedly so they wouldn’t directly impact any neighbors.
It’s funny. When I first saw Josh’s parents, I assumed we were getting classy neighbors. Then when I saw Anthony, I thought we were getting a new version of Hell. In both cases I was wrong.
After Aileen and I married, we bought a tiny condo on the third floor of an aging building – the only thing we could afford on our non-profit and childcare salaries. During the 13 years we – and eventually our baby – were there, the apartment across the hall hosted a carousel of neighbors: the immigrants from Poland who left when the wife became homesick, the young couple who moved away as soon as they could afford a house, the man who kept to himself, then disappeared one night, leaving a steady stream of creditors knocking on our door asking if we knew what happened to him.
And then there was Josh.
Whenever the apartment was up for rent, I’d spy prospective renters in the parking lot from my window. One day I saw a real estate agent escort a middle-aged couple who had pulled up in a Mercedes. Wow, this recession must be worse than I thought!
I listened through the stairwell door as the agent gushed about its features. “As you can see, it’s close to the park, and within walking distance of a grocery store.”
Within a week, a moving truck was in the lot. I was happy we’d be getting someone a bit high-brow in our building, but I couldn’t figure out why they’d want to live there.
My wife and I liked to get on good terms with each new neighbor by welcoming them with cookies. The night we planned to bake, death metal blared through the walls. As I headed out to ask them to turn it down, it stopped, followed by a door slamming and the sound of footsteps clomping down the stairwell.
Head-banging middle-aged rich people?
I looked out my window. Instead of the couple in the Mercedes, I saw a young man, about 18, with long curly brown hair and a white tank top jump into the passenger side of a red Miata before it sped off.
The next few days consisted of more death metal, more doors slamming, questionably aged females darting in and out of the building, and mysterious cars showing up for minutes at a time.
One night, a sweaty, sniffling, lanky young man knocked on our door, asking for Josh. “Across the hall,” I said.
And that’s how I learned his name.
After a week, an ambulance arrived and carted Josh away, as his glassy eyes gazed indifferently into the night sky.
Two days later, I heard feet storming up the stairs. “God you’re stubborn!” a voice echoed, “You’re out of rehab less than two weeks and you’re going right back in!”
I looked through the peephole and saw the middle-aged man fish a set of keys from his pocket. Josh looked at my door, as I stood motionless, ensuring he wouldn’t be able to see movement through the peephole. Within a few minutes, the man walked out of the apartment, hugging armfuls of clothes, as Josh shuffled behind.
Over the next few months, Josh’s regular visits to rehab were our reprieve, but we always knew he’d be back.
Even before Josh moved in, we had plans to move. I took on graduate school to become a special education teacher. By my last semester, I student taught every weekday, attended class two nights a week, and worked 32 hours each weekend. I was away from home every Friday morning to Sunday afternoon. I hated leaving her and our four-year-old by themselves, but I had to get through the year if we wanted to make it out of there.
When I was gone, I’d get calls from my wife.
“Josh nearly burned down the apartment. I smelled smoke so I called 911. The paramedics found him passed out on his kitchen floor. He was trying to cook bacon with a fork over an open flame.”
“I heard screaming next door so I called 911. They hauled Josh away in an ambulance. His foot was all cut up from kicking his toilet until it was shards.”
“Marty’s going to sleep with me tonight,” she said, referring to our toddler. “He’s scared from all the screaming next door.”
Another night, when I was home, the screaming hit fever pitch, and I called 911. I listened through the door and watched through the peephole as the paramedics met Josh at the door.
“We had a call there might be someone who needs help. You all right, son? You been drinking a little bit?”
“A little,” Josh said.
“You look like you might need to have a seat. Why don’t you sit on the floor?”
The paramedics assisted Josh to the ground, then he reclined to his back.
“We’ve been here before, Josh. I’m going to need you to blow into this.”
Several silent seconds.
“Two-eight?! Boy, you’re lucky to be alive!”
Over the next few minutes, I heard the paramedics cart Josh away. As they carried him down the stairs, I opened my door and saw a policeman.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
“Yeah, we’ve been here several times,” he said.
“I know. What’s it going to take to get him out of here?”
“I’m afraid there’s not much that can be done. They’ll take him to the hospital, then he’ll be released. We’ll probably be here again in a week or so.”
“Can the homeowner’s association evict him?”
“No,” he said, smiling and shaking his head in frustration. “They have no authority over this.”
There’s nothing we can do?”
“Well, not unless you’re willing to press charges,” he said as if pressing charges were the same thing as levitating.
“Yeah, we’ll press charges.”
“You’re willing to come to court?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yeah, I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Aileen and I made a statement. The next day, we typed out a longer version of Josh’s history to submit.
--
Josh became the talk of our building and everyone had a story. We pieced together that Josh’s loaded, yet frustrated, parents couldn’t wait to get rid of him, so they got the apartment for him as soon as he turned 18. He didn’t work and couldn’t drive, so he’d sit in his apartment all day and all night, watching movies. Barbara, an older busybody on the first floor, had somehow finagled Josh’s dad’s number and said she’d call him from time to time to snitch. She gladly shared the number with me.
I finally finished school and got my first teaching assignment. The first week, like any new teacher, I was a bundle of nerves. Leaving for work at 6 AM on my third day, I opened my front door to see the contents of a garbage bag, mostly fast food packages, strewn throughout the stairwell - corn and mashed potatoes in a Chili’s To Go box, sauce dripping out of Chinese food containers, greasy pizza boxes with small, opened tubs of marinara sauce.
I called the number Barbara had given me and waited for Josh’s mom or dad to answer. It went straight to voicemail.
“This is your son’s neighbor,” I yelled. “Thanks for making our lives a living hell! We live in fear of him burning down our building and today he threw garbage all over our stairwell. Some of us have to work for a living and I don’t have time to clean up your kid’s mess.” Before I hung up, I delivered my final blow. “Thanks for giving us your problem.”
When I came home that night, the mess had been cleaned, although the stains in the carpeted stairway never went away – a permanent reminder of that week.
A week later, I saw another young man move into Josh’s apartment. From my window, I got a good look at him. Baggy jeans, flat bill hat, Boston Celtics jersey, showing off two full sleeves of tats.
Great, now there are two of them.
The plan had been to wait until I earned tenure before we moved. I didn’t want to risk buying a forever home in a community, especially in the late-2000’s housing market, only to lose my job in a year or two. But now I was really getting nervous. Our once humble-but-earnest nest was turning into a drug den. I feared our son getting in the crosshairs of drug action.
It actually got a bit quiet after a while.
He’s probably the mule. Getting the drugs because Josh can’t drive.
Headed for the library one day, I saw the new guy, smoking in the parking lot, near my car.
“Hey, I’ve seen you around,” he said, “but we haven’t met.” He extended his hand, “I’m Anthony.”
“Hi, I’m Bob,” I said, meeting his hand. “Nice to meet you.” After we shook, I secretly wiped my hand on my pants. I scurried off before he could try to make me his next customer.
I’d see Anthony frequently in the parking lot after that, always smoking. I’d keep my distance, but give him a nod and a smile.
While the building had been quieter lately, Josh eventually had another outburst. Paramedics carted him away, but by the next day, he was home.
Going out to shop that afternoon, I walked to my car. Anthony spotted me. “Sorry about the noise last night.”
“It’s all right,” I said, always trying to be peaceable.
“No, it’s not all right. It’s like living with a baby. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” He dragged on his cigarette and exhaled. “I don’t know if you know what’s going on, but Josh is an addict. I am, too. I’ve got a daughter, three years old, I haven’t seen her in six months. I’m not allowed to until I’ve been sober for a lot longer, and Josh keeps trying to bring that crap into the apartment.” He looked away and shook his head. “It is so hard to stay away from that stuff, but I’m managing so far.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never met someone who was an admitted addict. “Why do you live with him?”
“His parents let me live there rent free to keep an eye on him. I work, but I can’t afford my own place. Not yet.”
He told me his story: how his using became out of control, how it had become unsafe for him to be around his girlfriend or daughter, how he lost everything and became homeless when family member after family member and friend after friend could no longer allow him to stay at their place because he had repeatedly violated their trust, how he had met Josh at Narcotics Anonymous and they both realized they needed help, how Anthony needed a home and Josh needed a keeper.
They were two battered, imperfect, sick souls and they were probably each other’s last hope.
--
On my drive to the store, I reflexively turned on the radio – my own habit. Within a block, I turned it off. I thought about Anthony. He was really, sincerely, trying to do something that was harder than anything I’d ever done.
I thought about Josh. He was drowning in addiction and he could easily be dead at eighteen – just when life starts.
I thought of Josh’s parents. Maybe they were doing everything they had been advised to do.
I thought about my own son. I thought of the choices he could make in his future and how Aileen and I would always, always support him.
I thought about how Anthony was helping to transform our building back to a safe place.
--
At the store, I bought chocolate chips. That night we made cookies for our neighbors.
Aileen and I knocked on their door. Anthony answered.
“Hey guys,” Anthony said.
“We made some cookies and thought you guys would like some.”
“Thanks,” he said, accepting the plate. “Come on in.”
I hadn’t been in the apartment since the Polish family had moved. It was a typical bachelor pad: a couch with several ass-grooves, a PlayStation hooked up to a big screen TV, and a floor lamp brightly illuminating one corner. Through the patio door, I saw Josh on the balcony, smoking. He nodded and gave us a small wave.
Anthony turned to us and spoke quietly. “Josh told me about the times you called 911. I know he won’t say it to you, but you saved his life and he is thankful.”
Life was certainly more serene while Anthony was there. After several months, they moved. Barbara said she heard Josh’s parents found a small house for them, 20 minutes away, purportedly so they wouldn’t directly impact any neighbors.
It’s funny. When I first saw Josh’s parents, I assumed we were getting classy neighbors. Then when I saw Anthony, I thought we were getting a new version of Hell. In both cases I was wrong.
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