Love Thy Neighbor
By Adam Ferguson
I don’t consider myself an overly friendly person. But I’m not a dick. (Well, I’m not a dick in person) With my non-dickish persona, I’m usually friendly to my neighbors. I greet them in the vestibule and hallways. I pet their dogs as they walk past. I ask them how their weekends were. General run-of-the-mill New York City neighbor chat. But the people who live directly next to me… the people whose door is pictured above… operate on a whole other level of existence.
The Door
Nothing says “You’re Not Welcome” like a sticker that says “You’re Not Welcome” featuring the barrel of a gun pointed at you. This is one of the many adhesive-backed statements their door shouts. Often contradictory, the stickers plastered to my neighbors’ door both support and pray for the downfall of the NRA. One urges someone to visit the splendor of Niagara while another insists a hermit lifestyle is the right lifestyle. Such a manic door can only reflect the types of personalities that hide behind it.
The Smoke
I’m not a smoker. Even when I tried to be cool by smoking a pack of Marlboro Lights, I still barely inhaled and spent most of the night dry heaving into the toilet. But my neighbors are smokers. Holy en fuego do these people like to smoke. Their door is almost always closed, which makes the amount of smoke that fills the hallways of my small brownstone just that much more disturbing. It’s so bad that I purchased draft guards in the hope they’d keep the nicotine-laced cloud from entering my apartment. One unknown tenant went so far as to buy a professional “No Smoking” sign from Home Depot and affix it to the wall outside their (and, sadly, my) door.
The Social Awkwardness
I’m far from being the most socially outgoing person in the world. But I will exchange pleasantries with my neighbors. These people - not so much. The woman, who is in her mid-60s and walks with a pronounced limp, was carrying bags up the two flights of stairs and I offered to help. She shot me a look that said, “I will eat the souls of your children” she audibly growled and continued up. I’ve smiled, I’ve said “hello,” I’ve held the door for them, all without any verbal acknowledgment. And I can hear them talking through the walls, so I know they’re at least capable of such oratory projections.
Through the Looking Glass
I’ve only seen into their apartment twice. It appears to be unpainted wood with absolutely no windows. In an almost Being John Malkovich-like architectural blunder, their small(er) apartment seems to be cut out of my already painfully tiny apartment. (Though I have windows) But it’s what they’re hiding in there that troubles me. Whenever I walk past their open door, it’s slammed shut, locked, and I notice a change in light through their peep-hole as if someone is looking out at me.
The Conclusion
As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, these people are clearly killing immigrants, and selling their organs on the black market. The smoking, while completely unhygienic, masks the smell of decomposing bodies. They don’t say much because, as known organ traffickers, they see humans as a way to print money, not as social beings. And the quick door slams can only be attributed to the fear of peeping eyes on the jars of pickled brains, shelves of bone saws, and tubs of medical waste on display in their minuscule abode.
Or maybe they let their stickers do the talking for them. Whatever the case, if I go missing, please someone check out these people. And make sure I’m not in my ice-filled bathtub with a kidney-shaped scar on my back.
