I have complained more than in passing to my friends about my young neighbors' behavior but never before in this space. They are all recent post-graduates who perhaps have never lived anywhere beyond a college dorm, where poor behavior is acceptable. Well to this I should (and will) say: this ain't SVA, kids, this is Brooklyn.

My list of complaints against them is small but powerful: there is the door slamming at all hours of the day and night, an act that shakes my entire loft. I have mentioned this to them all (There is an endless stream of roommates, two when I moved in, and now four as they have grown more ambitious with dry wall and someone's father's tool set.) but it has not seemed to stop them from continuing on in this fashion. I have to ask - isn't it technically harder to slam the door than to not slam the door?

This alone is not cause for complaint, because after all, they are young and have and energy, and the door is an excellent target for them to work their shit out. I might suggest kick boxing instead, but perhaps it wouldn't fit into their busy schedule. Neither also, apparently, would taking out the garbage, a task so time-consuming to them as to make it nearly impossible.

The last round of garbage sat outside their front door (which shares the end of a long, lonely hallway with mine) for three weeks until they took it out. Three weeks. I don't need to tell you that by the end of the week one the garbage was smelling, let alone at the end of three. And I also don't need to tell you that of all the cities in America, this is not the one to leave your garbage out for three weeks, because when you get rodents or roaches, they're huge, and they come to party.

I finally left them a note under the door (and I hate being the note person, I do, because it is so not my style at all, but I had knocked on their door a half-dozen times in those three weeks and they were never home) telling them to take out their garbage, because "it stinks." I even used some exclamation points in there. Three, to be precise. One for every week.

There is also the general crap that sits in the hallway, the old framed Ansel Adams print which no one should be forced to contend with on a daily basis except for your freshman roommate (I finally faced it toward the wall.), the deconstructed Ikea furniture, old pizza boxes, the broken VCR, the stolen computer monitor. Every day I make my way through this wall of crap, holding my breath for the five seconds it takes, and just remembering how much I love my apartment on the other side.

And finally there is the case of the graffiti on the wall, a dumb little drawing of a man with a cartoon bubble saying the word, "S.V.A." on the wall, left behind after their party last fall. This is the thing that killed me every day, until I finally covered it up with a postcard and four tacks. All of their other sins, well, it could be just because they're tacky or trashy or inconsiderate. The bad graffiti, that just makes me feel like I'm in a dorm, and I have not worked this hard in my life only to feel like I live in a dorm.

Which brings me to my most recent complaint. I am writing this at 3 AM, because someone staying next door, perhaps a guest, perhaps a roommate, forgot their keys last night. And then, I think, they got drunk. (I'm not really sure which came first here, it's definitely a chicken/egg situation.) They came home, they buzzed their apartment repeatedly, and then, when no one responded immediately, they started buzzing mine. They finally got in, somehow, made it on to the floor, but were stopped by the door off the elevator. Their solution? To kick that door repeatedly and noisily until someone responded. So if I weren't awake before, I am now. One of their roommates finally let them in, and then they came back to the apartment, and, I'm not sure if the door was sticking, or if it was just a funny, wacky, drunk, this is my first apartment and I'm all grown up now! thing to do, but they began to slam the door repeatedly. I'm talking twenty times, in a row. Giggling. Which prompted me to yell, "Jesus Christ, people are trying to sleep here!"

And then, instead of clamming up and going to sleep, these little gems, these little nuggets of moronic gold, decide to knock on my door. To talk. To bond. To make Ramen at 3 AM, perhaps.

"Jami, it's just us from next door! "

Are you fucking kidding me? I have to work in the morning. I don't want to hear any excuses. I just need you to go to sleep.

So here I sit, jacked awake now, while I am sure they are blissfully passed out, Jagermeister shots numbing their nervous system. Something sure stinks in Brooklyn.

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