Introducing new, blunt-smoking douchebag neighbors

I write this post from the Heart of Italy.

Gondolas are nowhere in sight.  The Vatican is thousands of miles away.  And I cannot recall the last time a mustachioed man walked by carrying a paper bag with baguettes poking out of the top.

I am at my apartment in Chicago.

In late October, I moved into a new apartment located in the Pilsen neighborhood on Chicago’s near south side.  My particular borough is known as “The Heart of Italy.”  The small community is known for a stretch of Italian restaurants along Oakley Avenue, and was once a popular destination for Italian immigrants.

(Many of my friends and coworkers view my move to the south side as quite fitting.  In fact, many acquaintances have guessed that I am from the south side, due to my thick Chicago accent.  One of my college teachers even asked if I was from Bridgeport, home of Mayor Richard Daley.  In addition, I am a White Sox fan who spent the better part of my life among Cubs Kool-Aid drinkers on the north side.   In many ways, moving south of Madison Avenue was a foregone conclusion.)

Several factors contributed to my decision to move to The Heart of Italy.  As I have noted before, I was disillusioned by the performance of the corporate management of my previous apartment complex.  My new apartment is conveniently located about 15 minutes away from my downtown office and is a short walk to the train.  Most importantly, the move put me within one mile of boqueen’s apartment.

boqueen and I have been together for a nearly a year.  For the first few months, it felt like a long-distance relationship.  I lived more than 50 miles away, and the hour long drive quickly became a nuisance.  This was further exasperated by the fact that boqueen is an urbanite who relies primarily on cabs and public transportation; she did not own a car until about a week ago. 

At times, seeing each other was a complete pain in the ass, requiring hours of planning and packing and a half a tank of gas.  I decided to remedy the situation by moving much closer to her, and she eventually moved in.  Now, we enjoy all of the trappings of “living in sin,” including sharing the cost of utilities and engaging in steamy premarital sex. 

::

Searching for apartments seemed like an epic task.  Moving is an arduous task that I simply dread, so I procrastinated as long as possible.  Three weeks before my lease expired, I combed Craigslist and strolled through prospective neighborhoods, scanning for black and orange “FOR RENT” signs.

The apartment-hunting process is a blur to me now.  Over the course of five days, I looked at ten different apartments on the south side.  Some were in good neighborhoods, while others were located in the ghetto.  Many of the apartments were dirty and unkempt and a few were in respectable condition. 

Apartment hunting taught me a valuable lesson: rental units on the south side are far less expensive than on the north side.  My new apartment has two small bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room that is cozy but not cramped.  I pay a meager $700 in rent; an apartment of the same size in neighborhoods with dense hipster populations such as Lakeview, Lincoln Park or even Logan Square would easily cost twice as much.

The hipsters will never learn the error of their ways.  Regardless, I am happy to live in a relatively hipster-free zone, as hipsters are afraid of brown people.  Ironically, the population of “The Heart of Italiy” is largely Hispanic. 

(I will make no apologies for pointing out this irony, as I poked fun at white folk’s apprehension to minority neighborhoods in great detail over six months ago.)

I am quite pleased with my choice of neighborhood.  Despite being located moments away from downtown, the area does not suffer from the congestion and gross overpopulation found on the north and near west side.  Traffic is virtually a non-issue, and free parking is relatively ample.  At times, my small neighborhood possesses the quiet tranquility of the suburbs, despite the fact that Willis (nee: Sears) Tower looms ominously on the skyline. 

I live in a three-flat, which is quite a change from the sprawling apartment complex with hundreds of units that I was accustomed to. 

Living in a massive complex offers one quite a degree of anonymity.  When surrounded by hundreds of people, it can be difficult to distinguish neighbors from one another and remember names.  During my year in the apartment complex, I befriended one neighbor, and ancient lady named Ellen.  I would encounter Ellen quite often as she would drag her blind and deaf pug across the sidewalk so the diseased animal could evacuate its bowels.  Ellen was a nice old broad.

I appreciated the anonymity because, in general, I hate people.  While I am a generally affable person, I prefer not to interact with my neighbors.  I suppose that this is a byproduct of growing up in a highly dysfunctional household where my parents would pass judgment upon the neighbors while being terrified of being judged by the neighbors for their loud, erratic and generally fucking insane behavior. 

Renting an apartment in a three-flat does not afford such luxuries.  My neighbors and I live directly on top of one another.  As boqueen and I alternately argue and fuck, they are privy to every moment, due to the lack of sound-dampening qualities in cheap building materials.  We handle one another’s mail and see each other while taking out the garbage.  Regrettably, I am forced to interact with these morose bastards, for fear of being rightfully labeled a douchebag and cast aside like a leper serial killer with a creepy wandering eye.

I live in on the top level of the three flat because, if history has taught us anything it is that the white man always comes out on top. 

Directly below me is a nice Hispanic lady named Anjelica.  She pronounces the “J” in her name with an “H” sound, which is something that my cracker-ass tounge struggles with mightily.  As far as I can tell, Angelica has one or more children and a nice boyfriend with a moustache, and she is quite family-oriented. 

Angelica recently gave us hand-me-down toys for my niece and nephew.  This was a nice gesture, despite the fact that it was clearly easier to hand the trinkets to boqueen than walk them an additional fifty feet to the garbage can in the alley.  boqueen suggested that I bake cookies for Angelica and her family, which I am in favor of, as the average recipe for cookies produces between 40 and 60 of the scrumptious bastards.  I plan on baking up a batch soon, and I will gladly hand off some of the delicious confections to a neighbor, lest boqueen and I become fat.

An indeterminable number of Mexicans live in the basement unit.  While empirical evidence indicates that, at very least, a trashy woman and her wannabe thug son live in the basement, there is quite a bit of traffic downstairs.  I would estimate that between three and 17 people live in the basement unit of the building.

While the scummy lady is the leaseholder, her son is the most prominent resident of “Unit BSMT.”  He and his social group have penchant for standing on the sidewalk in oversized clothing and referring to one another as “nigger.”

(The use of the word “nigger” is, understandably, a highly contentious topic.  Even two of the most famous colored people in the world, Oprah and Jay-Z, disagree on the subject.  Regardless, under no circumstances do non-blacks have the right to use the word, particularly in casual conversation.  Being a member of a minority group does not offer one the privilege to use all racial slurs with impunity.  It seems to suggest that Latinos endured the same hardships as Blacks in America, which is fucking absurd.  I respectfully request that all Mexican refrain from using the word “nigger” and finish mowing my lawn.)

I believe that the boy is between ages 14 and 17.  This estimation is based upon his inability to communicate in coherent adult sentences and the patchy hair that resides upon his face. 

While the basement of my unit is chock full of degenerates, I am not one to pass judgment.  After all, I am a self-proclaimed douchebag, so who am I to judge?

However, some of the living habits of the folks in “Unit BSMT” have become bothersome.

::

I would like to preface the next few paragraphs by admitting that I was once a regular marijuana smoker.  Actually, referring to myself as a “regular marijuana smoker” is a bit of an understatement; I was a full-blown pothead during my college years.  Smoking up was a part of my daily regimen.  I would get high before I went to work or to school.   I would puff a quick bowl before and after meals, a few times before bed and prior to any encounter with a family member.  My point is that I am a bona fide expert in pot-related matters.

(Remember how depressing September 11th was?  Imagine watching the second plane hit the World Trade Center while completely stoned.  At work.  It was a bummer, to say the least.) 

I moved into my new apartment on a Sunday afternoon.  boqueen and I decided to commemorate the momentous occasion with celebratory cocktails.  As I walked into the kitchen to refresh our drinks, my nose detected an unmistakable odor.

“Hey, come in here and smell this,” I shouted towards the living room.

“Smells like weed,” boqueen said as she entered the room.

My kitchen was inundated with the smell of burning marijuana.  Specifically, it was the smell of low-quality ditch weed rolled into a blunt with a flavored wrap.

(For the uninitiated, a “blunt” consists of marijuana rolled in cigar paper.  Many believe that blunts produce a higher level of intoxication, or, as urban dictionary notes, “a blunt a day keeps the doctor away.” Blunt wraps are pre-packaged cigar rolling papers which eliminate the hassle of removing the tobacco from a cigar.  As an added bonus, blunt wraps are available in a variety of flavors, including cherry, vanilla, gin & juice and “purple.”) 

The potent odor had permeated my kitchen from the window that faces my back porch.  It was an incredibly strong smell, as if the blunt had been smoked at my kitchen table. 

I opened the door out to my porch and was greeted by a more intense cloud of the disgusting odor.  At the door creaked open, I heard a flurry of footsteps as several people scattered on a lower floor. 

Every few days, the smell would return.  The blunt stink would appear at random intervals, sometimes late at night, sometimes in the middle of the morning on weekdays.

My inherent disdain for interaction with neighbors led me to avoid confronting the issue.  While it was annoying to unexpectedly smell a strawberry-kiwi-flavored blunt while working on TPS reports on a Tuesday afternoon, the situation was easily remedied with a few sprays of air freshener and a scented candle. 

I soon confirmed my suspicions that basement unit was the source of the offending odor.  On multiple occasions, I staggered through a dense cloud of smoke on the basement level while taking out the garbage.  Other times, I would inadvertently catch the pseudo-thugs in the act, prompting them to dash into the apartment like frightened cockroaches confronted with a bright light. 

I found it quite ironic that the teenagers would be brazen enough to smoke on the enclosed porch, yet they would immediately become frightened and hide when caught in the act, as if I were wearing a police officer’s uniform.

Fucking pussies. 

::

Last Friday, I worked from my “home office,” better known as my kitchen.  During the afternoon, I was startled by someone rapping on the back door of my apartment.  This is highly unusual, as the entrance to the building is in the front, and only the other tenants have access to the back porch.

I opened the door and was greeted by an elderly cracker who presented an identification card issued by the city of Chicago.

He explained that he was a city building inspector, and that he was checking for smoke and carbon monoxide detectors.  I let him in and walked him over to the smoke detector in the hallway.  Next, I showed him the carbon monoxide detector in my kitchen, which is perpetually unplugged so the outlet can be used for far more important things, such as our laptop computers and BlackBerry chargers.

“Funny thing, I just unplugged the carbon monoxide detector so I could charge my phone,” I explained. 

The inspector was satisfied and asked that I let him exit through the front door.  The brief visit by the building inspector seemed to pass without incident. 

::

That evening, I walked to the grocery store to procure essential forms of sustenance for the weekend, such as a case of Miller Lite and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. 

Upon returning home, the trashy broad from the basement unit was standing outside. 

“Hey bokeen, hey bokeen,” she said like a fucking parrot.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” I replied, unable to recall her scummy-ass name.  I assume that it is something like “fuckhole” or “skidmark” or “pukestain.”  Yes, I believe her name is “Pukestain Gonzalez.” 

“The building inspector was here today.  He was in your apartment,” she announced as if it were breaking news that was highlighted in yellow with blinking letter across the ticker on CNN. 

“Yeah,” I responded, already growing tired of the conversation. 

“Well, yeah, he told the landlord that he smelled weed,” she replied.

“No surprise there.  The back porch always smells like weed,” I snapped back in the most accusatory tone possible.

“Yeah, but he said he smelled it in the front stairs,” she said.  “I talked to Jesse (the landlord) today, and he was wondering what’s up.” 

I responded with a cynical grin.

“So, I am not trying to pass judgment or anything like that,” she continued.  “I just wanted to give you a heads up.  I mean, what you do is you bus–“

“Well, boqueen and I don’t smoke bud,” I interjected, “so I don’t really have anything to worry about.”

She began an anecdote I had little interest in, as my arm was growing tired from holding a 24 pack of beer.

“We used to live up on the top floor,” she said, before beginning a run-on sentence of epic proportions. “And this one time, Jesse came over and the kitchen smelled like weed and I was all worried because he smelled the weed but it was my son’s girlfriend who smoked weed because none of us would ever smoke weed in the house because this is our home and we wouldn’t want to risk that because I have a family.”

“Yeah,” I responded, hoping to reach the conclusion of her Shakespearian tale.

As she briefly paused, I heard the hamster wheel turning in her tiny, malnourished head.

“So if you don’t smoke weed, it was probably Anjelica,” she stammered.  Her smile indicated pride in her ability to craft a pathetic lie.

While I do not know Anjelica very well, I would never suspect her as a pot smoker.  In fact, she seems quite like the type of broad who colors inside the lines and would not engage in illicit activities such as double-parking, let alone (gasp) using drugs.

“I let the building inspector out through my front door,” I explained, “and it didn’t smell like pot.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads up,” she responded.

“No need,” I said. “I have nothing to hide.  We don’t smoke pot.”

“Well, my brother lives with me and he smokes sometimes, but never at home,” she admitted.  “And my son – well, you know, he likes to smoke cigars, but I know, as a fact, that he doesn’t smoke weed.”

I was absolutely appalled.  My scrawny female neighbor had assumed that I was unable to detect the distinct scent of marijuana when “masked” by piña colada-flavored blunt wraps.  

Perhaps she assumed that I am a naive white boy since she is unaware of my rich history as an expert-level pot smoker.

I offered a parting jab before the conversation ended. 

“Well, thanks, but I am not concerned,” I responded.  “boqueen and I don’t smoke weed because we are adults.”

::

I walked up the stairs to my apartment, seething with anger.  The degenerate woman’s strategy was painfully obvious.  She realized that her son’s habit of smoking sugary blunts was obvious to the entire building and that the offensive odor would inevitably cause complaints to the landlord.  She had hoped that by candidly admitting that her family members routinely indulge in a puff, I would be compelled to admit the same.

I suspect that if our landlord ever smelled weed in the building, she would quickly point to the conniving mixed-race couple on the top floor as the culprit. 

When I explained to her that I only smoke tobacco products, she suggested that Anjelica might be the inconsiderate smoker.  Again, I find this to be completely implausible and another transparent attempt at deflecting blame.

I was slightly annoyed by her childlike attempt to find a scapegoat for her son’s behavior.  However, I was absolutely enraged by her attempts to coax an admission of guilt out of me, and then convince me that my quiet and kind neighbor was actually a completely inconsiderate pothead.  She was trying to outsmart me. 

Don’t try to outsmart a smart-ass.

I do not mind if one of my peers outsmarts me.  If a friend succeeds in pulling a clever prank at my expense, or if a coworker happens to make me believe a lie in order to cover their ass, I applaud their efforts.

This is a quite different scenario.  In this case, my sickly, trashy neighbor is attempting to sell me a bullshit story.  The woman speaks at a fifth-grade level.  I find it insulting to know that she believed she could beat me in a battle of wits. 

I am a college-educated professional and a world-renowned writer.  She is a young mother who never educated her son about the inherent irony of referring to himself as a “nigger” while associating with the Latin Kings. 

Forgive me if I am boastful, but I believe that I have her beaten in the “brains” department. 

::

I have decided to abandon my laissez-faire approach to neighborly relations.  Until last Friday, I was fully content with ignoring the disgusting stench of flavored blunt smoke that would waft into my kitchen and saturate my entire apartment.  My neighbor’s pathetic, juvenile attempt to shield her teenage dirtbag offspring from blame, and potentially eviction, is completely intolerable. 

My anger is exasperated by her initial strategy, which consisted of pointing the finger at boqueen and I when the building reeks of low-quality marijuana.   

This will not stand.

The next time I detect the faintest odor of weed in the building, I am calling the cops.  I will dial 9-1-1 and shriek in horror like a Concerned Neighbor would.  I will explain that the use of drugs in my building makes me fear for my life.

I will continue to call, relentlessly, every single time the thug boys and his chums smoke in the building. 

I will even call when they decide to loiter out in front of the building, expressing my fear of “gang activity.”  I will call until my landlord becomes terribly annoyed by the frequent visits by Chicago’s finest. 

I am making it my personal mission to see to it that the degenerates are evicted. 

2 responses to 'Introducing new, blunt-smoking douchebag neighbors'

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1. Best of luck with the neighbors. I hope you and boqueen are adjusting well.

   Guilmar

   12.25.09 08:34 AM

    

2. [...] Introducing new, blunt-smoking douchebag neighbors ::bokeen [...]

   What would you do if your ghetto neighbor took a shopping cart to your apt and left it in your parking spot? | Zumala

   01.07.10 09:50 PM

    

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