franklyrebekah

On a warm Sunday morning in September of 2010, I was at the tail end of a long run with my friend Monica when I noticed a man approaching us — tall, thin, mid-to-late 50’s, grey hair.  We were on 4th Avenue between 7th and 8th Streets when he got close, turned his head in my direction, and spit all over my face.  It wasn’t just a gentle dusting, we are talking some serious spit action.  I was, understandably, livid.  But for once logical Rebekah trumped angry Rebekah and I thought to myself “this guy is completely unstable if he is walking down the street and sees two women running and chatting and feels the need to expel saliva all over one of their unsuspecting faces.”  Also, he obviously hated women.  (In the interest of full disclosure, I am fairly certain I turned around and screamed “what the fuck is your damage?!” to his slowly retreating back).  Monica and I finished the rest of our run, with me ranting continuously about the rampant disrespect in this city, and I carried on with my life, barely giving The Spitter another moment of my time.

Fast forward to the following May.  It was a gorgeous day and I had met my friend Paul for a run around Prospect Park in the early afternoon.  As usual, he kicked my ass and decided to keep running and I was left gasping for breath, making some excuse about how I had a class or needed to wash my hair or was expecting a super important phone call.  (In the interest of full disclosure once again, I pretty much never receive super important phone calls.)  I exited the park at 15th Street, feeling as though I had accomplished something by merely surviving.  Then, from around the corner I saw a man approaching me.  He looked somewhat familiar – tall, thin, mid-to-late 50’s, grey hair — but when I realized who he was it was too late.  Once again I was covered in a thin layer of saliva.  This time, ignoring logical Rebekah, I turned around and screamed “what?  You’re too much of a pansy to stay and face it?  Afraid a little girl might kick your ass??” (In real life, and not angry life, I consider myself medium-sized, not little, but it felt like the most reasonable line of attack so I suspended my pride for just that moment.)  All this got me was a simple shrug of the shoulders as the man continued on his merry, misogynist way.  I started in the direction of home, contemplating why I hadn’t just shoved him, and had to stop about 2 blocks away because I was filled with such rage and disgust that my legs wouldn’t carry me.  I ran home, looked for the address of my local precinct online, ran over there and made a police report.  The officer I spoke with was befuddled and disgusted but said there was little he could do with merely a description.  I filled out a report and went home.  I then spent the rest of the afternoon trolling websites, looking for other complaints about the actions of The Spitter.  There was a smattering here and there, but nothing all the substantial.  I let it rest.

The reason I bring up this rather outdated story is that I spent the past weekend in San Francisco.  One morning, my boyfriend Pete and I left the house of the friends we were staying with for a little jaunt around the Pan Handle.  Much like my experience with Paul, after one loop around Pete excused himself and sat on a bench while I continued my run.  On the final stretch, I saw this girl approaching me — about 5 feet tall, with short light brown hair.  She raised her hand in the air as she got close to me and we exchanged a jovial, and to me confusing, high five.  It was then that I realized that either San Fransisco is too soft for me or I am living in the wrong city.

I have been living in the same building since I moved to New York City upon graduating from college in 2005.  That makes, for those of us who are mathematically challenged, almost 6 1/2 years on the same block, in the same building, with the same (wonderful) landlord, Nelson, and, largely, the same neighbors, most of whom I at least exchange pleasantries with when I run into them on the street or in the store.  The same had always been true of my down-the-block next door neighbor, a 50-something year old man from somewhere in the West Indies.  He would ask me about my running, lament the fact that my (wonderful) landlord, Nelson, never planted flowers in the hideous cement boxes in front of the building, and inform me when the block parties were approaching.  Then, disaster.  This past summer I returned home from work on a Sunday (!!!) night exhausted and ready to spend the evening in.  But alas(!), there was a party at my down-the-block next door neighbor’s house.  And not just any party, it was a rager.  For some atmospheric knowledge, presumably when he bought the property he paved over the entire sideyard and backyard and turned it into a parking lot.  He now rents spaces to a lot of the people on the block.  When I got home on the fateful Sunday,however, there were giant white tents erected in the backyardlot in lieu of the Oldsmobiles and Hondas that usually live there.  There were decorations.  There were strobe lights.  In what is usually the garage, there was a full-on stereo system.  I am not talking talking about your run-of-the-mill sound system with small speakers. I think he hired someone out of one of those ginormous dance clubs operating on the West Side of Manhattan in the 20’s down the block from the bicycle rickshaw business where I used to spend some of my nights back in the summer of 2005 (more on that some other time).  It was for real and it was cranked to maximum volume.  I laid down on my bed, hoping that the feathers inside my pillow would reject all traces of sound, allowing me a restful night sleep.  As you might have guessed, this is not what happened.  It was as if I had laid my head down on top of the speaker.  Seeing as how it was 9pm, I figured I was shit out of luck.  I would have to wrench myself back out of the apartment and venture to a nearby watering hole to pass the time.  With boyfriend in tow, I trudged back up the street and plopped myself down in a stool, angrily sipping on my Powers on the rocks.  Every so often I would walk out of the bar and listen for sounds of the celebration around the corner.  10 o’clock came and went, followed by 11.  Finally, sometime after midnight the party died down.  Or, more accurately, got shut down.  I am still unclear as to how it managed to go on for so long considering that it was a Sunday (!!!), there are lots of young kids and old people on my street, and city sound ordinance says that loud music has to be quieted by a specified time (I think it’s 10).  Finally, a little drunker and a little more annoyed than I would have liked to have been, I went to sleep.  I thought it was over.  I was wrong.

For some background information, at the time of the aforementioned event, my roommates and I were living on the 2nd floor of our 3 story building.  The people upstairs, not to put too fine a point on it, were assholes.  The girl who had held the lease for our entire tenure in the building was basically incapable of keeping the same roommates for longer than a year.  She never said hi to me in the stairwell.  One of her roommates at the time of this event was a total tool who was one of her customers at the bar she was working at.  He was the kind of guy who, if he were to walk into my bar, I would keep an eye on him and make sure he wasn’t roofying some girl and leading her into the men’s bathroom for some playtime.  He was also a smoker.  He also, apparently, didn’t understand the concept of litter because he insisted on throwing his finished cigarette butts over the edge of the roof when he smoked up there, into our backyard as well as that of our down-the-block neighbor.  It is important to note here that I do not smoke, have never smoked, and therefore have nothing to do with the discarding of cigarettes.  I also have a brain and a sense of civic duty.  Thusly I would never throw a cigarette into my own backyard or onto the backyardlot or roof of my down-the-block neighbor.  Apparently toolish upstairs neighbor was not so bright.  You can probably see where this is heading.

The morning following the party incident I was heading out the door when I ran into my down-the-block neighbor and greeted him the same as always.  I was met with a scowl and the following words:  “You had a party on your roof” — we had, weeks earlier for the 4th of July and it was tame by any standards, especially the standards of someone who had only the night before thrown a party of epic proportions — “and the people at your party were smoking and threw their cigarette butts onto my roof”  — they hadn’t — “and now my house might burn down!” — it hasn’t.  He then threatened to tell my (wonderful) landlord, Nelson.  A feud was born.  At first, I was nervous about what Nelson might say.  We weren’t supposed to go on the roof.  But, I was certain of two things.  One, the cigarette incident was not our doing and two, this had nothing to do with the cigarettes and everything to do with the early demise of his party.  I think it bears repeating that this man is in his early to mid 50’s.  Every time I left the building for the following month and he was outside, I was met with complaints and threats.  Then, nothing.  He began to give me the silent treatment.  One day in early October, I decided to break the ice, ask him how he was doing, let bygones be bygones.  The conversation went like this:

Me: (Smile) Lovely day.  How have you been?

Down-the-block stupidass neighbor (DTBSAN): (Glare) *Silence*

Me:  Really?  You’re ignoring me?  Seriously? (muttering) Unbelievable.

Fast forward to today, November 28th, 2011.  I was running late to head into the city to work on the paper that I have been having a hard time focusing on as of late (case in point: I am writing this blog entry right now).  After getting my coffee I realized I had forgotten my computer at home.  My boyfriend Pete and I headed back to the house and he went upstairs to get the computer while I stayed downstairs, enjoying the unseasonable warmth.  And then, out of nowhere, neighbor!  He was sweeping some leaves in front of the garden level apartment.  I was expecting the same silent treatment as always so I continued standing there, staring blankly down the block.  All of a sudden I heard him speak.

DTBSAN:  (In a whiny voice, much like the one Homer Simpson uses when he is mimicking people.) Oh, I like to smoke.  I like to smoke and throw my cigarettes over the edge of the roof and catch things on fire…

Me:  (Looking around to see if anyone was witness to this infantile act).  How old are you?  Seriously.  Grow the fuck up.

DTBSAN:  (Still whining.) I litter.  It’s fun.

At this point Pete returned from the apartment and I looked at him and, exasperated, said “this man is unbelievable.”  Pete looked in the direction of my down-the-street neighbor’s house and laughed.  I, angrily, started walking down the block towards the train station.  I looked over my shoulder as we passed my down-the-street neighbor’s house and saw him there, glaring.  So, I glared back.  And you know what?  I won.  Because anyone who has ever met my glare knows it can kick anyone else’s glare’s ass.