For the sake of good neighbourliness

I’ve always wanted to live in a cosy house with flowers in the back garden and a big skylight to watch the moon from my bed and hear the rain tapping on my window.

Unfortunately, with the present astronomical housing prices, I can only afford to pay the mortgage of a studio flat downtown, with a small terrace and a parking place at the basement. There are 85 flats in the apartment block where I live, sold at the modest price of half a million G each (being G the official currency of the South Sandwich Islands). There's also a nice swimming pool and a small children playground with swings. The only inconvenience is… there are too many neighbours.

Nevertheless, I firmly believe in peaceful and harmonic coexistence in the neighbourhood. But that’s all I believe in.

The lady who used to live next door -actually an annoying busybody- felt seriously offended when I didn’t return her invitation to see the new furniture in her kitchen one fine Monday evening when I was back from work. I was a bit surprised about it and not in the least interested in her kitchen cabinets, but for the sake of good neighbourliness, I even accepted a cup of coffee.

As I said before, I never returned the invite. That was a big mistake. She never spoke to me again after that.

Let me put you in the picture: when I go into the garage under my apartment block, as I do every evening when I drive back from work, I park the car in my space, number 69. Then, I hurry to get to the lift before any neighbour who might be parking near does. I press the lift button, and as soon as the door opens, I get into it quickly. I press the button for the third floor -my floor- pleased with myself because I have won the race against my neighbour. I do not feeling like sharing my space in the lift with anyone else at the end of a working day; and I do not feeling like doing the journey with anyone else, having to say ‘good evening’, talk about the weather or ask what floor they are going to.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am very sociable really, but I do not enjoy this business of getting on with neighbours. I do not like people trying to be overly friendly with me just because we have some space in common; people who may use the excuse of seeing my new boiler or inspecting the dividing wall between us to satisfy their curiosity about me.

The reason for that is very simple: I refuse to accept the idea that one fine day someone could listen to my early morning conversations, heated arguments or affectionate reconciliations through the bedroom wall when I'm not alone, or that they should see my home in a mess overflowing with junk; this home of mine where all the furniture has either been lent or comes from outlet shops and flea markets.

Anyway… back to the lady next door: she moved out two months ago. Obviously, after our awful diplomatic record, she didn’t even say goodbye to me when she left. The next thing I knew was that I had two new neighbours. It couldn’t be worse than it had been before with the neighbour lady -pretending we hadn’t seen each other every time we met at the doorway-.

Last week, in the middle of a warm Sandwichian night, I sat on the terrace drinking Coke and reading a book. I love to sit there sometimes, under the moon and the stars; to breathe the scent of orange and lemon blossoms in the night breeze and listen to the sound of the waves rocking the beach.

All of a sudden, my daydreams were interrupted when one of these two new neighbours jumped in the terrace. Yes, you heard me: I said ‘JUMPED’. It was a beautiful white long haired cat with impressive green glowing eyes.

I’m not a cat person, but for the sake of good neighbourliness, I stroke its hair and wondered who his owner was. That was not difficult to answer: My second new neighbour was leaning out of the balcony looking for his friend.

- Hi, my name’s Dorian. And she’s Pearl but she has already introduced herself, I think. -he said-
- Oh yes, now we’re friends. I’m Leni. Nice to meet you Dorian; that’s a very nice name, by the way.
- My mom likes a lot Oscar Wilde. –he said smiling and blushing-
- That’s an excellent taste for literature! Especially Dorian Gray’s. –I said, smiling back-

Dorian was cool. Contrary to my normal behaviour, I showed some hospitality and asked him to join me for a drink at the terrace. He accepted.

- Excuse me but… you look familiar to me. –he said-

Jeez: My picture in the papers kissing Ed made me so famous.

- Oh, probably. There’s nothing special about me, I’m just… run-of-the-mill. –I said, playing down the importance of what he just said-
- Actually, I think I saw you in the papers last week… don't know exactly where...
- I hope you’re not a reporter. –I asked, quite concerned-
- Oh, no, no. I’m a designer.
- That’s interesting. And what do you design?
- Clothes.

He immediately let me know he was gay. It was a bit embarrassing; not by the fact that he was gay, but because I felt as though he would be somehow showing me the limits. (Gosh, do I have such a lustful aura?).

My cellphone went.

- Hey sweety.
- Hi Ed.
- I presume you haven’t seen my motorcycle jacket, have you? But just in case… I’ve lost it, don’t know where exactly.
- I’m sorry, Ed. I haven’t seen it.
- Shit, it’s my favourite one; it’s a designer leather jacket and I always use it when I ride my bike. Probably lost forever. Never mind, babe.
- What’s the designer’s name, Ed?
- Krook McKooky.

I pulled trick no.1 out of my hat: if I had lost a jacket I loved so much and it would be so unlikely to find… I would try to buy myself another one.

- Oh, yes, there’s a Krook McKooky shop downtown. Maybe if you asked there… you could replace it with a new one. -I said-
- Nah, it’s an old design. They have a new collection now.

My first trick didn’t work at all. He was very upset. I remembered that beautiful jacket: Black leather, big pockets, sturdy zippers and straps across the chest. He looked stunning when he wore it.

Ok, trick no.1 failed; so I tried trick no.2: Since there was no way to get another genuine jacket at Krook McKooky's shop…

- Why don’t you buy yourself a new one? Maybe Hackett, Polo or Boss… just for a change? –I asked him-
- Hm… I’m picky, love. I’m very attached to my clothes and when I like something, I may wear it until it falls to pieces. Besides… I hate shopping. Or rather, I hate it when other people are shopping at the same time I am. And just in case you were wondering… you won’t drag me along to go shopping at these exclusive shops on Main Street…

Wow what a pissy mood! I tried my very last trick: gently trying to placate the situation. Normally, I have a very high success rate when I do. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

- Nothing’s irreplaceable, Ed. If you want, I could go to Krooky McKooky’s shop tomorrow and ask them if they have another jacket like the one you’ve lost. Or check if there's another different one you may like.
- That’s very sweet Leni, but they don’t have it.
- Why not? Don’t give up so easily!
- Oh don’t be so unreasonably stubborn! They just don’t have it, I told you it’s an old design! –he said, raising his voice-.
- But how can you possibly know if you don't ask?
- I JUST FUCKING KNOW! -he shouted-
- OK! –I shouted back, putting the telephone down-.

What a stupid reason for a stupid fight. I phoned him again.

- Oh Leni… I’m very sorry…
- Don’t ever dare to shout at me again. It’s not my fault that you’ve lost your jacket. I was just trying to help. –I said and put the telephone down-

Some guys feel so attached to their old clothes that you could give them a heart attack just by donating to charity their old creepy stuff.

I could understand his annoyance, but what got on my last freaking nerve was that he wouldn’t move his ass to get himself the new jacket, even if he liked it that much. And I’m not stubborn but a fighter: when I really want something, I go for it. With all my might.

- Sorry to be indiscrete, but I just couldn’t help listening, Leni, I think I can help you. -said Dorian, who had been listening very quiet-
- Oh really? That would be lovely!
- Krook McKooky has an outlet shop in the suburbs. Just google it and you’ll get the address. They have old designs there and many stuff. You may find that leather jacket for your friend over there.
- Thanks Dorian. I'll do it even if it's the last bloody thing I do.

"Crown of love" (Arcade Fire)