Sin City
Inner city life’s the same everywhere, it seems. Except for the fact that there are many single-family homes in our (formerly) South Sydney suburb, apartment-living is the norm, or approaching it, anyway, as more commercial space is converted into residences. A particular shared characteristic of apartment-living is noisy neighbors, both within and outside the block of units, such as the pub across the way, whose patrons (especially now that the partial smoking ban is in place) insist on loitering on the footpath to conduct loud portions of their revels, but also those yet unsuited to such cheek-by-jowl arrangements as are enforced by having a common wall with someone else.

Initially, our apartment was particularly blessed, with only neighbors above and adjoining one wall, the latter being at the top of the long vertical of our L-shaped unit, so that our bedroom, being at the far end of the horizontal, was relatively insulated. Once the backpacker contingent above were removed and the same-floor neighbor converted the unit into an office, we spent something like a year-and-a-half in considerable peace and quiet. Enter the 20-year-old Central Coast child of privilege.

Our new neighbor, S., is lucky enough to have parents who will assist her in the purchase of an inner city unit and then head back up the coast where they are far more insulated from their progeny than those upon whom they have inflicted her. Not too long after S. moved in next door, we realized we’d met her before, late one evening when she and her roommate had locked themselves out of the unit they’d been renting on an upper floor and were seeking the assistance of the non-existent caretaker. In the end, they obtained the aid of a friend with a power saw, who cut a hole in the apartment’s fire-rated front door with no thought to many hundreds of dollars it was going to cost to be replaced. Realizing her identity, we regarded the advent of S. next door as an ill omen, as it is proving to be.

I met her mom when the move happened and painting the unit was underway. “Oh, S. is a wonderful girl, 20, but no parties, of course,” was the gist of the message mom imparted. 20, I thought, and no parties? Oh, that’s accurate, I’m not sure. As it immediately proved, when merely four days later, at 2:30 a.m., her return from whatever revels she’d been attending was heralded by the doof-doof bass more typical of an Oxford Street nightclub than of anyone’s home. Two attempts to cajole her into reducing the volume required only a third, the final attempt being performed by the local constabulary, since my own authority was evidently dismissed out of hand. That quietened her for the next two weeks, more or less, although there has been a bass throb some mornings after 7 and some evenings before 10, reasonable enough hours that we’ve been able to accept with great aplomb.

Today, however, has been a bit more dramatic. Earlier, around noon or so, the shopkeeper whose establishment lies beneath S.’s apartment, came up to report his grocery was experiencing a cascade from the ceiling. Not us, says M., it’s next door. But the shopkeeper was unable to rouse any inhabitant thereof, forcing him to request the emergency services of a plumber, whose investigation only determined that indeed, yes, it was the S.’s unit causing the problem. He and the shopkeeper again attempted to entice any occupant to open the door, but although there was a response, it was only the groans of someone who must be injured in some fashion. The fire brigade was contacted for assistance, while the plumber attempted to bash in the heavy door.

Now, remember, the apartment doors in the units are fire-rated. In other words, they’re thick and heavy, quite substantial, and meant only to respond to someone with an axe. Hurling himself at the door, well, all right, kicking it really, really hard – and this is a big bloke – was doing some damage, but it wasn’t getting anyone inside. However, it was getting the attention of the resident, S., at last, who was finally aroused from her stupor – which was all that was wrong, with her, that is – to complain “You’ve broken my door.” Well, yes, you idiot, we have; we thought you were dying in the shower you left running for the past God knows how many hours enough for it to have caused a flood in the shop below.

S. did eventually open the door to find out what all the fuss was about and turned off the taps. The damage, however, was done (and the fire brigade arrived; very timely), and the liability assessed as: the strata’s! No way we’re paying for this one, though, any more than we paid for the fire door S. destroyed before.

Look, I don’t mind if you can’t take care of yourself any better than this, but I’m not paying for it. Mostly, however, I’d just rather not live next door to it. I’m not your daddy, and if they’re not going to take care of you, you’ll have to do it yourself.