My upstairs neighbor moved out today. I call him “neighbor” in that I never got to know him aside from mumbling “hey neighbor” when passing him on the staircase as I hauled my groceries up to my second-floor apartment.
I did get to know him fairly well in a sense as he walked around his apartment a lot. More like paced. LOUDLY. “There goes my neighbor, ol’ Clobberstompy, pacing from the bedroom to the kitchen and back over and over again like a sad lion roaming the perimeter of his pen at the zoo. A sad nocturnal lion.” Like the dude was up ALL NIGHT wearing shoes made of concrete walking rapidly back and forth in his third-floor cage. Right. Above. Me.
He would get up at quarter to six most mornings and begin the routine again, which also included what sounded like tossing cinderblocks around. But sort of quietly tossing them. Like just loud enough to go along with the stompage, and in a pattern that suggested he maybe had a free weight gym in the living room. The thing is, he wasn’t some big dude, looked to be late 20s, under 6 feet, well under 200 pounds.
Maybe he was into reps more than big gains.
I got to know my downstairs neighbor just a bit before she moved out several months ago. Like actually knew her name, except I am SO BAD at remembering names that it got embarrassing. She asked me to watch her front door for packages when she went on a trip once, signaling that she also likely didn’t know any of the transient types who move in and out of an apartment complex located near a college campus.
It’s equal parts sad and relieving to not have to know anyone around you in any important way.
“You don’t hear me walking to the bathroom eight or nine times a night?” I asked her once. Note to self: I really should get my prostate checked.
“Once in a while, no big deal,” she responded. So it is possible to move about sort of stealthily in my building.
So back to Stompy McClomperson on the third floor… How someone who is not-huge could make so much noise walking around is beyond me. And where did he get the energy to pace around like that all night?
One morning I found a present on my balcony. It looked like the barrel of a cheap dart minus the plastic feathers. But upon closer inspection, it was a brass cocaine spoon. (Note: I only know what this looks like because I watched Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul.) Occam’s Razor (which is not a piece of drug paraphernalia) suggests it fell from his balcony, through the spaces between the slats, and onto mine. I found another one a few months later. And ANOTHER a few months after that
Also, after his workout routine, the guy used to do early morning bong rips on his balcony directly above mine. Gurgle gurgle! And then he’d cough up a lung. Dude, have you ever heard of edibles? And you’re doing that first thing in the morning? How wired are you? Wired enough to clobberstomp around all night, I guess.
Between the coughing and the spoons, he was the least discreet druggie ever.
So the last couple of days have been extra stompy with lots of reps of things being loudly placed in the living room and kitchen near the front door. This morning I heard the sound of hand trucks clunking down the stairs and figured out the extra noise was Stompity Clompmeister moving things down to a truck. It was extra louder than usual, but it meant the end. I almost offered to help.
Instead, I danced a happy jig in my living room upon figuring this all out. I hope the new downstairs neighbors didn’t mind.
I’d like everyone I know to watch this 
“Make hay while the sun shines.”
What you’re really trying to do is sucker me into the haymaking business, which is a total pyramid scheme, and a scam. A pyramid scam. A pyramid made of hay. Do you know what happens when you build a pyramid out of hay? The big bad wolf blows the whole thing down with one puff, that’s what happens!
I don’t need artisanal boutique hay, and you’re not going to buy it from me at the farmers market, either. It’s the same reason I don’t make my own soap. You know what happens when you make your own soap? You end up in a Fight Club, that’s what! Do you have any idea what goes on in a Fight Club?
I can just hear the lobbyists from the Haymaking Industrial Complex in Washington, D.C.: