I’m very sensitive to noise, so one of the best parts of working from home, I thought, would be controlling my aural environment. I more or less need absolute silence to get anything done, which was impossible to come by in my former cubicle situation, complete with Chatty Cathy yaking away about her tacky wedding all day. Finally, I thought, I will be able to work in peace, with only the sounds of Ben typing from two rooms away and CEO Ripley purring quietly at my side on the couch.
However, I forgot to take into consideration that I live in New York City. In an apartment building. And that just like every other person in New York City, I manage to have the worst neighbors ever.
Before you relate to me some story about how bad your neighbors are, let me say this: our neighbors play the tuba.
And the cello.
And the synthesizer.
And the violin.
And the saxophone.
Oh, and they sing opera.
This might - might! - be acceptable if they had any talent at all, but they do not. They don’t practice actual pieces or even play scales. They just (excuse my language, but there is no better phrase for it) dick around on these instruments. For hours at a time.
When we first moved in, we invited them to our housewarming party. Within minutes, they had alienated everyone present, insulted our religious views and our way of life, and, when asked what they would like to drink, requested an “H2O on the rocks!”
I don’t have a problem with people who don’t drink or people who hate my friends or people who are evangelical Christians. But I do have a problem when you have a problem with me choosing a different path in life and tell me so while drinking out of one of my water glasses. Oh - and I can totally tell that you guys re-gifted us that Christmas present you left at our door. Nice try.
By now, I’m sure you can guess what they do for a living: they are Children’s Performance Artists. Yes, the performance artist - another way of saying that you own instruments but can’t play them. That you like art but aren’t talented enough to make any. It might even be worse than admitting that you’re a freelance writer.
And get this: they’ve complained about our noise level before, by leaving notes tacked to our door. It’s worse than the pot calling the kettle black, it’s like the pot calling the kettle a TUBA. AT EIGHT IN THE MORNING. I mean, sure, we listen to music from time to time, but our music involves tempos and melodies and choruses and is, for the most part, in tune.
And although Ben and I briefly discussed responding to their note with a note that said, simply, “TUBA!” we haven’t done much except not change our own way of life. But now that I’m in the apartment all day, trying to finish a project by five today but having trouble stringing two words together due to the noise pollution, we might have to act.
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March 4, 2008 at 1:58 pm
Diana
As Whitney would say, HELL TO THE NO. They tacked a note to your door about YOUR noise level?!
I suppose Kyle and I are lucky in our situation although we hate our neighbors that live on the other side of our duplex. They borrow our stuff and don’t put it back, people visiting park at strange angles so they get stuck in the ice/snow and ask Kyle to help them out, and the mom screams at her kid at all hours while stomping up and down the stairs. But a tuba at 8am has got to push you over the edge especially with the added slap in the face of “Could you keep it down? The flushing sound of your toilet and flicking of light switches throws off my creative flow.”
March 4, 2008 at 2:32 pm
Lena B
Wow. Tuba. At 8. Okay, you win.
March 4, 2008 at 3:46 pm
Natalia
I was in a similar situation when I moved into an apartment with a friend. Our neighbors downstairs were unhappy with their living situation and, instead of politely requesting that they be switched, they complained - about EVERYTHING. Their reasons ranged from my roommate and I smoking on our porch and ashing on their balcony (untrue, we used an ashtray, thank you) to us having “wild parties” and spilling alcohol on their patio furniture. These accusations were all false and they continued until the day we moved out. We were harassed by our leasing agent and it got to the point where we threatened legal action.. although, like you and Ben, we didn’t really do anything except leave a mean note on their door the day we moved out.
March 4, 2008 at 4:49 pm
the mother hen
My son plays the tuba, and he plays it well and it can get on my nerves. So someone just “dicking around” on it all.day.long. would make me crazy. No clue what you should say to them though, so I will look forward to reading how you handle it.
March 4, 2008 at 5:23 pm
ian in hamburg
I suggest very loud, very prolonged sex. Often.
March 4, 2008 at 6:38 pm
Allison
Maybe you should take up the drums…oh, no, then they might want you to join their band. Ian’s idea is much better.
March 4, 2008 at 10:27 pm
dmw
My son played tuba in high school. He told me recently that if I saw one at a yard sale to get it for him–the concert model as pictured. Offer the guy a price! My son is now in Wisconsin and neither you nor I could hear it from there–thank God!
March 5, 2008 at 11:14 am
emily
My boyfriend is a musician, and I’ve said the same thing to him, but he so far hasn’t had any motivation to do so because he lives by himself and on a corner apartment where no one complains…but here’s the thought:
WHY DON’T MUSICIANS COUGH UP THE MONEY TO HAVE A REAL PRACTICE SPACE? So simple. And they’re usually really cheap (like $200 a month, and you split it with other musicians). And they practice in a building designated for them and other people who practice music, and so their music does not interfere with their or their neighbors’ living spaces.
Maybe you could set up a mic and a amplifier next to your keyboard so they can hear your typing on full blast all day. CLICK CLICK *CLICK-CLICK* CLICK. I’m all about neighbor revenge.
March 5, 2008 at 11:15 am
emily
*an amplifier
March 5, 2008 at 11:43 am
Adrienne
our first neighbors in california used to listen to mariachi music all day long, from 8am until 11pm on saturdays (I can’t verify their habits on weekdays, as I was at work. but I can make horrible guesses). things got a lot worse when they seemed to have acquired:
1. a tuba, to play along with the mind-numbingly unvaried bass lines
2. a mariachi video game to emphasize the unilateral takeover that this musical form had performed on their lives.
the only - ONLY - variation on this theme from the day we moved in until the day we moved out was the day (near halloween, go figure) on which we heard over an hour of liturgical chanting.
I have no suggestions for you, since the most proactive I ever got was stomping on the floor in boots, but I recommend swift action.
March 5, 2008 at 12:10 pm
Kemo
I expressed my fear that on quitting your job you would not have anyone or anything to complain about and thus time would dull your sharp tongue and neutralize that acidic wit. I worried needlessly. I am saved, at least for now, by “the neighbors”.
I am confident that in your free time at home and in your excursions into the neighborhood, NY city and beyond you will find no shortage of annoying people, places, things and rules.
Next offering…
March 5, 2008 at 1:53 pm
the milk maid
Fight tubas with tubas? Sheish!
March 5, 2008 at 3:04 pm
April
I had the same issue with my neighbors and Christina Aguilera.
I mean her musical stylings, not Christina Aguilera herself.
How awkward would it be to tell her to keep it down?
March 5, 2008 at 3:21 pm
joe
The best defense is a good offense. Try these on for size:
Airhorn. Cuckoo clock. Put a vibrator in a large steel tin, hang from the ceiling by the door, leave for the day.
Buy ten alarm clocks at Goodwill. Set them to go off all day long.
Tape loop of the Oompah Loompah song.
GG Allin ‘Hated’ DVD on repeat.
Call rent-a-hippie, have them send over their best digeridoo man. He can play along to a Dave Mathews CD.
Scour surplus medical equipment dealers, buy a bellows ventilator, feed the hose into a steel garbage can, let ‘er run 24/7.
Go get that Gary Wilson CD ‘You Think You Know Me’. Play that sucker, often.
March 5, 2008 at 4:36 pm
emily
joe, can I hire you as a body guard? those are some of the best scare tactics I’ve heard in a while!
March 5, 2008 at 4:45 pm
Beth from Avenue Z
Here in San Diego at my writer-ly office, it’s the garbage trucks. Loud. Incessant. Garbage trucks.
I’m near a city facility, so they drive by a lot. That’s not the bad part, though. For some reason, they seem to pick up trash at the nearby dumpsters on different days and different times. That means I have garbage trucks hanging out near my house every day, sometimes several times a day.
Perhaps I’ll have really loud sex when they come by. Yeah — that’ll teach them. Or at least perhaps I won’t worry about the garbage trucks as much.
March 5, 2008 at 9:29 pm
Bipolarlawyercook
I think a notepad of sticky notes, all that say TUBA, ready to go by the door way, is the right choice.
March 6, 2008 at 4:49 pm
Anonymous
I’ve lived with bad neighbors in college towns, goldfish-bowl communities, blighted urban neighborhoods and once in between an elderly woman who bred yap-yap dogs and an aging hillbilly small-engine power equipment enthusiast and Harley-revver guy. Kill.
I’m all about the subliminal revenge.
Try odors. Cod liver oil dripped onto the sill of an open summer window demands respect. And there’s nothing that says “I don’t like you” more than hidden bacon.
Happy birthday! 27 is nothing. Waste your youth while you can; I didn’t get a real job until almost 30. A decade later I can’t believe they pay me what they do for what I actually accomplish. Plus my office is closest to the coffee maker. Score.
March 6, 2008 at 4:52 pm
joe
I’ve lived with bad neighbors in college towns, goldfish-bowl communities, blighted urban neighborhoods and once in between an elderly woman who bred yap-yap dogs and an aging hillbilly small-engine power equipment enthusiast and Harley-revver guy. Kill.
I’m all about the subliminal revenge.
Try odors. Cod liver oil dripped onto the sill of an open summer window demands respect. And there’s nothing that says “I don’t like you” more than hidden bacon.
Happy birthday! 27 is nothing. Waste your youth while you can; I didn’t get a real job until almost 30. A decade later I can’t believe they pay me what they do for what I actually accomplish. Plus my office is closest to the coffee maker. Score.