Mr. August

By Patricia Lamkin

When I was growing up in Silver Spring Maryland there was a man two doors down who was forever grumbling about us kids messing up his precious grass, or sledding in his side yard and tearing up the ground.  

"Why can't you kids stay off of my lawn?" he'd shout.

Mr. August was rather obsessed with his lawn.  His was the kind of grass that had to be re-sodded every year.  In the summer it was greener than green and neatly trimmed, like he secretly coveted the "most anal lawn in the neighborhood" award.   In the winter it was dead and crunchy like stiff shredded paper.  Crabgrass.  It suited him well.

I admit I was a mischievous child.  Not bad, just adventurous.   As an adult I enjoy peace and quiet.  I still go out for adventure - hiking, rock-climbing and such, but I keep my home adventures to my writing and in the movies I watch.  I don't party, I don't drink.   But when the new people moved in upstairs, something strange happened. The cosmic tables turned, like a karmic joke come back to haunt me.  Mr. August karma.

They chose the optimal move-in time: midnight.  There was clanging up and down the antique elevator; careless throwing of heavy stuff onto the floor.  This went on for hours.  I debated going up.  I put it off.  I rationalized.   Oh, they're just young, I thought, rolling to my other side.  This must be their first apartment, I speculated, cramming my head into the pillow.   It's a new adventure for them, I mused, putting tissue in my ears.  Finally I couldn't TAKE it any more! I went upstairs and knocked firmly on their door.   I was FUMING and ready to raise major hell!

What came out was surprisingly sweet, almost Donna Reed.  With frightening kindness and a smile, I politely let them know they were keeping me awake and to please keep it down.  Thanks!  :)

The next night, the noise came again.  This time I made no pretense of being nice.  A guy answered the door and I let him have it.  I was so furious I was shaking as I spoke.  I said I couldn't understand HOW they could think it was alright to HAMMER things in the middle of the night, and NOT think it would disturb anyone!  I said I wouldn't run my vacuum at that hour, because I knew it would likely BOTHER other people!  I said that you just don't DO stuff like that after nine o'clock at night!  I said that they had REALLY been disturbing me and that they were lucky I didn't call the police!  He was superficially polite, said they would try to be quieter, and slammed the door.

Now I've done it, I've gone and labeled myself, I thought.  I'm the building curmudgeon.  The grumpy neighbor.   The bitch downstairs.  God help me, I'm Mr. August!

Mr. August.   The man we loved to hate.  We actually taunted him, he was such a killjoy.  We'd see him watching us out the window as we were walking up the street to our homes, and we'd cut that one little corner where his mailbox was, right across his grass, just to see him fume.  If he came outside, we'd run, then hide in the bushes and laugh. 

Is it true?  Am I now the killjoy?  Have I turned into Mr. August?  I thought about this a great deal, as the noise continued.  I took the matter up with the manager, twice, and each time he suggested I was being too sensitive:  "It's just the building, you know?   I mean, I can hear the people above me having sex all the time!"  I wanted to say that perhaps this was something he enjoyed hearing.

Am I too sensitive?  I thought about it week after week as they continued to bang and saw.  Is that a jackhammer?  Wow, sure sounds like one.  Yes, really.

So for a third time, I spoke to the building manager.  This time I told him I thought they might be altering the apartment and breaking building codes up there.  Finally he said he would investigate, and it wasn't long before the crazies upstairs moved out.

We have to stand up to the little injustices in life, even if it labels us.  As for Mr. August, I know I'm not like him.  After all I was a kid of about eight years old.  My noisy neighbors on the other hand, were grown adults...I think.  They weren't tromping on my prized crabgrass, they were invading something even more precious: my privacy.  

Since then the new neighbors have moved in: two guys in a rock band.  They have the ill-bred notion that it's totally acceptable to rehearse in their apartment with their amplified instruments.    

Poor Mr. August.  I wish I'd known him better!