When New Neighbors Attack

I recently moved from one apartment in my Los Angeles residence to another. Indeed, there are many pluses to this.   Significantly cheaper rent to the condo owner for a unit that is only 10% smaller and with a much bigger and nice kitchen.   All is good.

Except for the apartment now above me.   Where the resident is apparently training a thoroughbred horse.  Or, at least, it sounds that way.

It's not like I didn't have fair warning.   In the weeks where I was moving my belongings in a shopping cart from one floor to another, a cheesy looking chick shared an elevator ride with me.

"Oh, you're the new person who's going to be under me."

So to speak.   

"You'll have to tell me if I make too much noise."

I should have figured this out right then and there.  If she thinks she's noisy, it must really be bad.

And, from the first night, it was.  I will learn that her name is Gabby, but it just as well could be Ruffian or American Pharoah.   No matter the hour, she is clomping around the apartment in heavy thuds.  There is obviously not an inch of carpet fiber in her unit.   Contrast this with my previous apartment where the guy upstairs was rarely heard, except for a tendency to do his laundry at 3AM.

I was pretty cool on the Belmont Stakes upstairs, but I did mention it to my condo owner.  

"Yeah, my previous tenants had issues with her.   Actually, there's a file of complaints on her at the local police precinct."

Um, thank you for mentioning it now that all my heavy furniture is here.  

Last Saturday night, it got unbearable.   At one point, Gabby dropped something on the floor that had every Dodger bobblehead in my home nodding in agreement.   I turned on the all news radio station to see just what this last earthquake registered.

Prodded by my condo owner, I dropped a note to the head of the HOA.   I told him that I knew there were rules in the building about dogs and cats.  I wanted to know about regulations regarding stallions.  

Again, I was told that Gabby has been a chronic problem and she had been fined in the past for noise.

"The Shabbat services she holds in her apartment get a little noisy."

My dumb luck.   I moved underneath a do-it-yourself synagogue.

The HOA guy also told me to document everything and that Gabby would be appearing at my doorstep to apologize.   She did just that several nights later.   I looked down at her ugly shoes.  I could see how those clunky boots could wake up the dead.  

Gabby said she had a friend upstairs and she wanted her to walk around in shoes to hear just how bad the noise could be.   She dialed her cell phone and relayed the command in either Yiddish or some other foreign tongue.   The friend started to walk around and Gabby's jaw dropped.   It sounded like the D Train pulling into Fordham Road in the Bronx.

"Oh, my God.  You have to text me whenever I am making too much noise."

Well, then, expect to hear from me so much that I could be your father.

As the apologetic Gabby left my door, she turned and grimaced.

"You know, most of the people in this building hate me."

Well, Gabby, I guess you're going to have to work on that.

Dinner last night:  Had a larger lunch so just a small sandwich.