Gail Force Winds: A Park Slope Essay About My Asshole Neighbor

Last night I woke to a knock at my door. It was not a gingerly-knuckled, Dear-God-I-Know-It’s-Late-And-I’m-Totally-Sorry-But-This-Is-An-Emergency knock. It was an aggravated, You’ve-Been-In-The-Bathroom-For-Twenty-Minutes-And-There-Are-Other-People-At-This-Party-Who-Need-To-Pee knock. I thought perhaps I was dreaming and rolled over. Then I heard it again, followed by a voice.

“Helloooo,” she crowed through the door.

I looked at my phone. It was 3AM. What the fuck.  

“Open the door,” she called out again.  “I know you’re in there.”

Well of course I’m in here, I thought. I live here.

The nasally cadence belonged to *Gail, who lived in the apartment directly below mine. I put a pillow over my head and held my breath, lest she recognize the breathing patterns of someone who is awake and in no mood for any of this. She lingered for a moment before trodding lazily back down the hall.

I would have opened the door for anyone else, but not Gail. She is not so much a neighbor as she is an open canker sore; the type of person who manages to leave those around her feeling uncomfortable and in need of a numbing agent. I’d lived in my Park Slope studio apartment for two days when I first encountered her.

This particular move was important because for the first time I was living alone in New York City. I’d just started making decent money working at an advertising agency, and rather than use the extra cash flow to travel the world, I searched for studio apartments in the pricey Brooklyn neighborhood of Park Slope. At the time, “doing Europe” wasn’t as important as having my own toilet. Free from roommates, I wouldn’t have to consult someone else on where the sofa should go. No more forfeiting half a fridge. And, perhaps most importantly, no more sweeping someone else’s pubic hair from the bathroom floor. Like a tween boy discovering his first erection, I was looking forward to being completely and absolutely alone.

I’d just broken down the last of my moving boxes, and was pleased at how much my studio already looked lived in. I lit a candle so the neighbors would think that I still had energy to bake fresh gingerbread cookies, and retreated to my bathroom for a congratulatory shower. For once I didn’t have to consider someone else’s feelings by hogging the bathroom, so I stood under the water for a long time, maybe twenty minutes. After toweling off I walked out of the bathroom naked, just because I could, and was met with the sound of my intercom buzzing. The noise was long and continuous, and I wondered if the button was stuck.  I expected to look out the window and find a sheepish deliveryman cursing the jammed buzzer. I pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”

The buzzing stopped. “This is Gail in 1F,” a voice barked. “Let me the fuck in!”

“Oh,” I said. That’s all I could think to say. I was not expecting this result. It was like taking a sip from a cup and expecting orange juice, but tasting milk. I wondered if the voice belonged to a tenant who had been locked out, and was now anxiously fretting over a dinner that was burning in the oven. I can forgive this kind of behavior on account of how much I love eating, so I buzzed the voice in, and retreated back to the bathroom to dry my hair. A moment later she was pounding on my door.

“Open the fucking door!” she yelled.

I froze. This part wasn’t right. I let her into the building. She was now free to rescue her charred chicken casserole from the oven. Surely she had not asked me to “open the fucking door” to say thank you.

“Hi,” I called cautiously through the door. I wasn’t about to open it and invite the situation to turn physical. Plus, I was still naked.  “My name is Kerri. I just moved in a few days ago. I think maybe you’re looking for the person who lived here bef---“

“Water has been flooding through my ceiling and into the goddamned apartment for the last twenty minutes!” she shouted. “I was banging on your door for ten minutes, and then had to go outside to ring the bell! Did you fucking cut your wrists in the tub and let the suicide water overflow onto the floor?”

This, I thought, was an odd question. How could I answer the door if I’d slit my wrists and bled out? Also, if she believed I had attempted suicide, wouldn’t the logical step be to first call 911?

“Look,” I said, a bit louder. “I just took a shower and there was no water leaking anywhere in my bathroom or the rest of the apartment.” I held my arm out to display the lack of water on the floor as if she could see through the door between us.

”I’m sorry if there’s water in your apartment,” I continued, “but I haven’t done anything wrong. The leak must be happening inside the walls. I won’t turn the water back on, and if the landlord wants to come check out my bathroom he’s more than welcome. But I’m not opening the door. OK?”

The voice let out a long, frustrated sigh. “I better not see anything else leak into my goddamned living room,” she growled, and returned to her home, presumably under a bridge.

For this entire exchange I didn’t once look through the peephole. I spoke only to my front door, and had no idea what the face on the other side looked like.  I walked back into my bathroom and inspected the walls and floor, searching for any sign of a leak. I found nothing. I could hear the sound of heavy furniture shifting around below. Gail in 1F was grunting and, from the tone of her voice, cursing up a storm. I couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, but one phrase in particular was spoken loud enough to reach my ears above:

“Stupid bitch cunt face.” 

This is how I was welcomed into my new apartment.

Growing up in suburban Massachusetts, the term “neighbor” referred to someone who lived at least a tennis ball’s throw away from your own bedroom. This was someone you could choose to see or not see. If they were cool -- the type of person who would lend you a snowblower -- you could invite them over for a cookout, and put them on your Flip Cup team. If they were lame -- the type of person who smelled of cat urine and was always yelling at children to "get off my goddamned lawn" -- you could simply avoid them.

In New York City we don’t often have these options. There are over eight million people living within three hundred square miles that make up the five boroughs. That’s almost 27,000 people per square mile, and does not include the daily gaggle of tourists. Buildings are often squished together, side-by-side, with no space in between. Because of this set-up, we smell what our neighbors are cooking. We hear their music, and their conversations. We know when they go to the bathroom and when they shower. In this giant, concrete sardine can of a city, there is no such thing as real privacy.

Here are some things that I learned about Gail soon after we met behind closed doors: she likes to boil eggs for dinner a few nights a week. This makes my apartment smell like farts. She really likes the B52’s and Shania Twain. She has a boyfriend, and when they are not having sex directly below my kitchen, they are arguing a few feet beneath my coffee table. These shouting matches typically end once the boyfriend screams some kind of final declarative statement, then storms outside to smoke cigarettes on the stoop. 

Not long after the leaky shower incident, I woke up in the middle of the night to Katrina and the Wave’s 1983 hit “Walking On Sunshine.” It was blasting down in Gail’s apartment. On repeat. I enjoy this song in only two instances: at weddings (after at least two champagnes), and during that one scene in High Fidelity where Jack Black sings along to it while swaying his roly poly body in circles. I do not enjoy this song five hours before my alarm is set to wake me up for work.

With each blast of the song’s upbeat horn my hardwood floors shook. Upon feeling a fast approaching migraine, I groaned and threw off the blanket. I pulled a bathrobe on and shuffled down the stairs and over to Gail’s door. I knocked, and the music lowered. Then, nothing. I pictured Gail on the other side of the door: a frozen, faceless woman, her ears perked like a terrier. I knocked again, louder.

“Hi Gail,” I said to the door. “This is Kerri from 2F. It’s 2:00 in the morning and that’s really loud. Can you turn it down? I have to wake up for work in a few hours.”

Still, nothing.

I took a deep breath. “Look,” I said. “I’m not trying to be a dick neighbor or anything, but –“

“Some of us sleep during the day,” she said, and turned the music back up even louder than it was before.

I pressed my face to the door. “I’m calling the cops,” I shouted, and stomped back upstairs.

Back in my apartment, I dialed 911 on my iPhone’s keypad. I displayed the phone to the floor, as if Gail could see through her ceiling.

“See this?” I threatened aloud. “I’m calling!” I stared at it, but couldn’t hit send. I knew that if I called the cops I’d be forced to stay awake and wait around for them to come. Chances are they wouldn’t be happy about being dragged out to police the number of times someone plays “Walking on Sunshine” inside their own apartment.

I couldn't just ignore her actions, though. If I let Gail walk all over me now, she’d do it forever. She’d stand behind me in the laundry room and force me to fork over laundry quarters, lest I get tipped upside down for a swirley in the washing machine. Plus, this was the first apartment I had all to myself. I couldn’t let Gail invade my space like a bad roommate. I had to fight back.

The next morning I woke up an hour earlier than usual, at 6:30AM. I had only slept a few hours, yet I felt awake and energized. I put my ear to the hardwood floor. Gail’s apartment was quiet. I plugged my iPod into a Bose speakers dock, which I put facedown on the floor. I covered it with a blanket so that the sound traveled exclusively toward Gail. I worked methodically and meticulously, like a trained assassin. I scrolled through my iTunes searching for the perfect song, my own “Walking on Sunshine.” It had to be something that was bad, but catchy enough to get stuck in one’s head for an entire day. It didn’t take long to find the perfect tune. The song was the best thing to happen to 1997 for about a week, at which time it transformed into the worst thing to happen that year. I pressed play and unleashed Chumbawumba’s one hit wonder, “Tubthumping,” on repeat, and skipped into the bathroom for a long shower. After that I ate toast with jam. Then I put on a sleek pair of high heels and danced around the room. The sun was just beginning to rise.

“I get knocked down!” I sang loudly. “But I get up again! You’re never gonna’ keep me down! I get knocked down!” I jumped in the air so that I landed hard on the floor at the word “down.” It was my own personal anthem to Gail.

I heard a knocking sound on my floor. It was the exact pitch of a broom handle hitting the ceiling. I pictured Gail, tired and sweaty, standing inside her moldy apartment on a damp sofa cushion.

“Some of us sleep during the night!” I shouted to the floor.

I went to work that morning feeling alive and invincible.

Gail and her boyfriend started arguing more often, and more loudly. He began smoking his post-fight cigarettes inside her apartment. The stale smell of tobacco floated up through the heating vents and into my studio. I sprayed streams of air freshener through the vents (then Lemon Pledge when that ran out, and hairspray when that ran out).

Gail retired the B52’s and Katrina and the Waves and started listening to loud industrial techno music late at night. I stocked up on earplugs and purchased expensive noise-cancellation headphones, but the hard beats of the music managed to penetrate my skin and shake my organs. I continued waking up at 6:30AM to play my own revenge songs for Gail: Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” “The Macarena,” “Who Let The Dogs Out?” I was elated to find a downloadable version of “The Chicken Dance.” I spent time and money researching and purchasing the most annoying songs I could get my ears on.

This is how we lived for months.

It was the epitome of passive aggressiveness. Every move to hurt or annoy the other was made within the safety of our own apartments. Because we still hadn’t confronted each other face to face, I often wondered if Gail and I had unknowingly met outside of the building. Chances are we bought stamps at the same post office and shopped at the same grocery store. I imagined myself strolling through the produce department at Key Foods. I’d reach for the last ripe avocado, only to land on a hand reaching for it at the same time. I’d look up to see kind blue eyes staring back at me.

“You take it,” the woman would offer. Then she’d lean in close. “Between us,” she’d stage whisper. “I suck at making guacamole anyway, so you’d be doing the party a favor.”

We’d laugh, and I’d compliment a quirky piece of jewelry dangling from her neck. She’d clutch it and say thank you, it was her grandmother’s, and then we’d be on our merry ways.

In another context, free from leaking showers and loud music, Gail and I might actually respect one another.

We might even be friends.

This morning it was approximately 130 degrees in Brooklyn (give or take).** Normally I’d spend a weekend like this airing my pits directly in front of my AC unit, but last month my electric bill was over $200 because I left it running on full, arctic blast through the night and for 48 hours straight on the weekends. This weekend I pledged to save money by siphoning someone else’s icy air.

I spent the day bouncing from neighborhood bookstores to coffee shops, and the early evening catching a movie at a theater near the park. By the time I returned home the sun was beginning to set, but the air was still hot and moist. As I turned the corner onto my street I ran into Shelly, who lived in the apartment above mine. She was petite and pixie-like, with a short, Mia-Farrow-circa-Rosemary’s-Baby haircut.  She and her girlfriend Anna were by far the most attractive people in the building. They owned a songbird blue Vespa scooter, which I often saw them returning home on with a basket full of fresh food from the nearby farmer’s market. On weekends they’d sit together on the front stoop doing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle. Anna once left a strawberry rhubarb cooling in the window. If humans could be purchased on Etsy, this is what you’d get.

“Hey girl,” Shelly said when she saw me. She was predictably carrying a fresh bunch of kale and a small, potted basil plant. While walking toward the apartment, we chatted about her homemade pesto recipes (“I use walnuts, not pine nuts!”), and a new lock that our landlord had installed a few days earlier.

“On Wednesday I was trying to get my bike in the basement,” Shelly explained. “And I was having trouble getting my key in.” With a bike dangling from her shoulder, Shelly struggled at the tall, iron ground floor gate for a moment before Gail materialized at her front window.

“I asked if she wouldn’t mind opening the door,” Shelly said, “And Gail started grilling me: ‘What’s the landlord’s name, address and phone number’?”

“What the hell,” I said. “Why was she doing that?”

“She said she needed to make sure I wasn’t some hippie bum lesbian looking to live in her basement.”

I stopped walking. “Get out.”

Shelly inhaled a freshly plucked basil leaf. “She’s an awful person.”

“Wait,” I said, as we reached the front stoop. “So you’ve actually seen Gail in person? Does she look like a troll? Like with warts and stuff?”

“She’s actually kind of average looking. Straight brown hair, not fat or thin – I mean, except for the stomach. Just your typical, run-of-the-mill pregnant lady.”

“She’s pregnant?!”

“Yeah,” Shelly said, pulling her keys from a canvas tote bag. “She’s huge. About to pop any day now.” She took her kale and basil into the apartment building.

I stood on the stoop, dumbstruck.

Gail being pregnant changed everything.

I feel the same way about pregnant people as I do the elderly. Because of the altered biological state they’re in, be it cataracts or swollen feet, these people get free passes in life. We give them our seat on the subway, or let them cut in line at the deli because it’s the polite thing to do (and if we don’t, everyone within viewing distance will judge us).

When my sister was pregnant she felt like she was going to vomit for six straight months. She couldn’t eat out at restaurants because the smell of both chicken and coffee nauseated her. When my best friend was pregnant she alternated between not having a bowel movement for a week, to accidentally peeing her pants every day. It’s hard to imagine pregnancy as a “beautiful state of being” when that “state” includes vomit and adult diapers.

Gail was pregnant in the middle of Brooklyn’s hottest summer. She couldn’t have been comfortable. Her electricity bill must have been through the roof. And here I was, forcing her to move heavy, damp furniture from the wrath of my leaky shower water. I was keeping her awake while she tried to sleep. If I were Gail, I probably would have been an asshole too.

Maybe when Gail knocked on my door late last night it was because her water had broken! What if she needed someone to take her to the hospital! Was Gail was a Joseph-less Mary looking for shelter, and I just turned her away?

I was going to knock on Gail’s door and call a truce, face to face. I’d tell her that I had no idea she was pregnant and that our constant battling couldn’t have been good for her health or the baby’s. I’d expect her to apologize as well (she may have been bursting at the belly seams, but she still called me a “stupid bitch cunt face”).

When I reached my own front door I saw a note taped to it. There was a photo of a stork carrying a baby in a large cloth diaper. Underneath, typed and in large, bold letters, it read: Attention, neighbors: I’m giving natural birth at home tonight. If you hear loud sounds of distress and screaming over the next 48 hours, DON’T be an asshole and call the cops. –Gail in 1F

This is how Gail officially won the war.

I tore the note down and went into my apartment. It looked different now, somehow tainted. It was no longer the place where I could enjoy long showers and leave dishes in the sink for as long as I wanted. It was no longer a place for freedom. It was where I tortured some poor pregnant woman and her unborn baby. I pulled a chair up to the AC unit and turned it on full blast. The icy stream of air felt good against my hot cheeks. I plugged noise cancellation headphones into my iPod and pressed shuffle. “The Chicken Dance” came on.

I grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at the sticky sweat on my forehead. I thought about waving it in the air, a white flag admitting defeat, but from inside my own apartment Gail would never see it. 

*Gail is not her real name. Identifying characteristics have been altered. 

** Please don't write "it's fucking winter, moron," in the comments. I know this. I wrote the essay during the summer months.