The Last Time I Saw My Neighbors

By Mark Tulin. Published on March 1, 2023.

When I first started working from my apartment, I was overjoyed. I was free from office life, and I didn't have to drive to work. I could take short naps, and snack whenever I felt like it. However, working from your home quickly became tiresome. There was no one to interact with, share lunch with, or gossip about other employees. All I had to look at was the computer screen and out my front window.

So, when I'm starting to get headaches staring at my computer screen, I look out the front window for distraction. I see who is in the courtyard and who enters or leaves their apartments. I know when people are coming home from work, shopping, or drunk—and I even know when someone got lucky and brought home a date for the evening.

I miss my wife. When she was home, I could have someone in the house to keep me company—but she was in the military right now and will be away for six months. So I have a lot of time on my hands, which means, I look out the window and give descriptive nicknames to all the tenants. I probably should mind my own business, doing something constructive, but it's amusing, and at least I'm staying out of trouble. I used to do computer gambling, but when my wife discovered how much money I had lost, she gave me an ultimatum. And after that, I began to drink heavily, and then I stopped because it interfered with my concentration at work. Now, I figure that watching my neighbors is a helluva lot safer.

The most vocal of our neighbors was the “Penguin.” I named her Penguin because she had a honking, annoying voice—plus, she waddled when she walked. And she always spread gossip. She had probably talked about me looking out the window all the time, but I still said hello and didn’t hold it against her.

She had bright red hair and bought her clothing at L.L.Bean, where I bought mine. She liked to wear oversized clothes and talked in a loud Russian accent, making a squawking sound when she laughed.

I heard her cackle no matter where she was in the apartment complex. If she was in the laundry room or the parking lot—I knew the Penguin was there gossiping about someone, and it was usually about the neighbors.

She had a bad habit of looking in people's windows. I think she was a voyeur. She'd even done it to me, pressing her face against the windowpane, and all you saw was someone's smashed face. I told her it was an invasion of privacy. But she said, "In Russia, we look in each other’s window all the time. We make sure everyone’s alright."

“I don’t care what you do in Russia. Here in America—it’s wrong. And if you don’t stop, I’m telling the landlord.”

She stopped looking in my window but continued with the others.

She often commiserated with the Running Man. I call him that because he runs all the time in his flip-flops. He runs to his car, the mailbox, and the laundry room. I wondered why he was in such a hurry. I asked him once, and he said it was a habit and he had been doing it since he was a kid.

“I like to run,” he said. “It shouldn’t bother people.”

The Running Man was a technological nerd. He had his blinds open and all his electronic gadgets were on display—Go-Pros, PlayStations, drones, and multiple computer screens. He worked at Best Buy as a senior manager of the Geek Squad. His favorite music was the redundant sound of a video game. His idol was Steve Jobs, and he had a poster of Jobs in his living room holding up the first iPhone. 

He spent all his time in cyberspace and never took care of himself. Only in his early thirties, he was overweight and had a Beatles haircut. He wore Costco clothes and Payless shoes. He had three male friends who sat on his sofa playing Osmos or the Walking Dead on the large screen TV. They giggled like schoolgirls.

Directly above the Running Man was a young woman who I called The Flirt. She was in her late twenties, had a pleasant smile, and an attractive pair of legs. I often watched those legs walk the steps when I stared out the window. She probably walked slower to give me a nice, long view of the merchandise. She wore short skirts and slinky dresses that highlighted her figure.   

The Flirt enjoyed teasing the Surfer Dude, who lived next door. Although he had a girlfriend, it didn’t stop The Flirt from making a play for him. Often, The Flirt left her front door open on warm days when she knew the Surfer Dude would arrive home from work, hoping he'll walk by and see her reclining sensually on the sofa. He has yet to be tempted, never crossing the threshold of infidelity. 

However, the Surfer Dude had roving eyes. He would flirt back, often parading shirtless, showing off his well-developed pectorals as he waxed his surfboards in the parking lot. The Flirt had probably hoped that his girlfriend would leave him, so she could move into his apartment and have regular bonking sessions.

Despite her attraction to The Dude, she flirted with anyone standing on two legs. She’ll flirt with the carpet cleaner or the married Mexican man who lives in the two-bedroom facing the street. She’ll even flirt with me when she catches me in the laundry room, doing my whites and colors separately.

“Hi,” she said shortly after moving in. “I see you have the two-bedroom on the first floor.”

“Yes,” I said while clearing my throat. “I live here with my girlfriend. She's in the service.”

“You must be home a lot with nothing to do. I notice you’re always on the computer or staring out of the window, especially when I’m walking up the stairs.”

She smiled while my face turned red.

“I work from home. I'm in the footwear business.”

“What kind of shoes do you sell?” she asked.

“It’s a new company called Spongies. I’m wearing them right now. It’s like walking on air.”

She looked down at them and grimaced.

“I know they look ugly, but they're just for wearing around the house.”

“How do you like mine? They’re uncomfortable but pretty.”

I gazed at her red heels. She had perfect ankles connected to slender legs.

“Well, anytime you don’t feel like staring at me through the window, you can knock on my door,” she said.

She reached out to shake my hand, and felt my body quiver. I wondered what would happen if I took her up on her invitation. My girlfriend would probably hear The Penguin gossiping. Everyone in the apartment complex would find out, and I’d be given an instant lousy reputation.

There were three more tenants, including the immigrant family that I nicknamed The Scared Family. They didn't speak English, and I was unsure of their nationality.

“If I had to bet,” said The Penguin, “I’d say they were Mexican because every time I look in their window, they’re eating Mexican food.”

They are poor, and can't afford blinds, so The Penguin can see everything inside their apartment. The wife works at a Spanish restaurant downtown, and the husband has a food truck that serves Spanish-speaking workers.

They stay to themselves and rarely come to the door when someone knocks. However, I noticed a tall man in a dark suit carrying a briefcase, and stopping by their apartment once a month. He rings the bell, then knocks, but no one answers. He then sticks his card under the door and leaves. The Penguin thinks it's an immigration officer wanting to deport The Scared Family. I hope they don't get deported because they're the quietest tenants in the complex, and we rarely see them.

The Angry Man lived two doors to my right. He never said hi to anyone. He sat in his apartment, listening to "Old Man" by Neil Young. Once in a while, I saw him sitting in the parking lot on a folding chair. He wore the same old gym shorts—most likely from the 50s— without underwear, leaving his junk hanging out. I heard he has a serious heart problem.

And lastly, there's The Crazy Family. They were the worst tenants. They were not bad people—the husband and wife didn't get along. They were constantly fighting. Sometimes they had loud arguments at three in the morning. Once the police were called when the wife locked herself in the car and was crying the entire night. This kept all the tenants awake. And the Penguin told her to leave her husband and get a divorce.

None of the tenants were violent. The Angry Man did not die from a coronary. The Flirt did not steal The Surfer Dude away from his girlfriend. But there was one natural disaster that changed our lives.

An earthquake that measured eight on the Richter scale paid us a visit in the middle of the night.

It happened while I was sound asleep. My wife was still on active duty when the earthquake rocked the apartment. It jolted me out of bed and onto the hardwood floor. All the pictures fell off the walls, the TV set was ruined, and part of the ceiling collapsed in the living room. Immediately, I went to the safest place in the apartment—the bathroom, where I waited for the rumbling to end.

Death was never on my mind until that day. You'd think my wife's life would be in jeopardy serving in the Marines, and not me. I thought the whole apartment building would crumble around me, leaving me buried in the rubble, reminiscent of the deadly earthquake in San Francisco.

Our apartment house was destroyed, but I made it safely outside while everyone was in the courtyard. The Surfer Dude had blankets in his car and handed one to each of us. The Penguin was on the phone with the police, who informed her that the power was out in the neighborhood.  And The Scared Family handed out food they kept in their car for emergencies.

Running Man had vacated with his technology intact. The Flirt was crying, and The Crazy Family was arguing about leaving their valuables behind. It was a good thing they didn’t have kids, or they’d be lost in the rubble.

I found out later that the Angry Man had died when a bookcase fell on him in his sleep. His phonograph was still spinning a Neil Young record. And he died wearing his old gym shorts with no underwear.

It was the last time I saw my neighbors. The apartments were all unlivable and would take a year to get repaired and cleaned. Our leases were officially broken, and we all moved in different directions.

I found an apartment on the third floor with a view of the mountains. I rarely saw my new neighbors, which didn’t bother me one bit.

Mark Tulin is a retired marriage and family therapist living in California. Mark authored Magical Yogis, Awkward Grace, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, Junkyard Souls, and Rain on Cabrillo. He’s featured in Redemption, The Hatchet, Still Point Journal, The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Amethyst Review, Vita Brevis Press, White Enso, Still Point Journal, and other publications. He is a Pushcart nominee and a Best of Drabble. Visit Mark’s website at www.crowonthewire.com.