The only downside to living in the complex where I do, is that my neighbors tend to, with shocking accuracy, demographically represent one of four categories.

1. The blue hairs: Relatively rich, hopelessly glamorous, or plain and matronly, all are women over eighty, either single or widowed. They have lived in the building since the earth was turned, and are generally friendly, progressive for their age, and eccentric as all hell; they can frequently be a hoot.
2. The DKNY crowd: Young, single, upwardly mobile career woman. Great because, well, they are usually never there. When they are, more than a few seem to be somewhat anal, however most of them seem smart, current, and hopelessly stylish; these are women perfect for a hall gossip session or Saturday jaunt to Starbucks, and I count two in my circle of true friends.
3. The urban fag: Anything from your outdoorsy bear (the majority), right on across the spectrum to piss elegant opera queen (or 3'rd floor interior designer, Hi Marc). We have quite the range, from mid thirties through early blue hair. Mostly single, occasionally coupled, they are generally decent guys who appreciate a quality residence. And let’s be real, this category makes up the majority of my dating pool.
4. The others: The catch all demographic not fitting any the above, either through age range, couples with kids, 20 something hipster hetros, the obsessive hoarders, the functionally insane, or the social malcontents. For the most part these neighbors are value neutral. They are neither particularly engaging, nor annoying; just the people who happen to live in the same building you do. For a variety of reasons, these types generally don’t last long.

The first three categories, not a problem, they make for ideal people to have next door. It’s the fourth category that lately, is causing a bit of an issue.

To my right, we have the category one representative. Going on this example alone, I have won the good neighbor jackpot. At 78, Inez is an early blue hair. She adores and fusses over Singher, is fit as a fiddle, and not infrequently compliments me on my choice of facial moisturizer. A former dramatic stage actress who has known several successful seasons at Stratford, she is simply never seen unless dramatically swathed in sweeping, monochromatic layers. If that isn’t enough, the woman makes the best passion tea / vodka cocktails I have ever tasted.

To my left, is another story entirely. A sulky, twenty something couple, he the poster child for the urban metro-sexual; she the poster child for a bitter, bitter, bitter bride to be. You know the type, pretty in that pale, fragile way, she’s the girl who goes full meltdown on her wedding day, because the lace on her garter is azure-cyan blue, not celestial blue.

My armchair psychoanalysis of this dysfunctional paring? Constantly in what seems to be some form of Really Serious Crisis, she hates that he is always a step behind in her orderly plan-of-our-life portfolio. He, secretly resentful for being attached to her hip in his failing effort to pamper and pacify the delicate flower. The relationship trajectory? An inevitable shattering breakup, one that is completely and totally his fault, which effectively ruins her life in every way possible until the end of time. However, in his mind, “that was seriously messed up”, might be overthinking it.

These oh so sharp and prescient observations have been made mainly at a distance; because in six months I have said less than two sentences to either one of them. That is until yesterday.

Knock, knock.

9:00 am on a Saturday morning?

Someone is daring.

Tossing on a t-shirt, I give momentary consideration to throwing something over my boxers, but resist the effort; hell, I didn’t invite the earnest door knockers. Hastily tossing the front door open, I am greeted by the male half of neighbor from the left. In his slightly off center ball cap, eyes framed in oversized nerd glasses, he is the picture of Urban Toronto Hipster, wrapped in a cashmere cardigan. I also cannot help but notice that he is wearing plaid, low rise, slim fit, stretchy pants. From Burberry! Or so the oversized tag still attached to the belt loop, says. This should be fun.

“Hey! Al, is it? Hope I didn’t wake you dude.” His body language and gestures are all over the map.

After an appropriately uncomfortable silence, I say, “Had to get up sooner or later. Nice pants.”

I can’t believe I actually said nice pants.

“Thanks man. They’re from Burberry, in England, you know, the scarf….”

“Yeah, I know. What can I do for you? I didn’t get your…”

Realizing he has yet to introduce himself, he says, “Oh, Tristan. So, don’t really know how to say this, but the thing is we’ve been hearing some noises, you know? Like, some “night time noises”. So to speak.”

Scare quote hand gesture offered as extra inference, had I missed it the first time.

“I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. Tristan, is it?”

I’m clearly being more of a dick than I need to be, no doubt because he is wearing plaid, low rise, slim fit Burberry stretchies. Fuck, I bet she bought them for him.

Whispering, he says, “Dude, we can hear you having sex.”

Intentionally, I reach into my boxers and give my balls a scratch. “Huh”?

“Seriously dude, we can totally hear you!”

With a slow rising, exaggerated guffaw, and that grating non declarative cadence, he sounds like a seventeen year old wanna be surfer from Laguna Beach. I successfully resist a smile.

“Well, dude, news to me. The only living thing to share my bed in the last two months has been my dog. The Dalmatian / Lab cross who is, as you can see, furiously humping the blanket in the kitchen.” I move to my left, facilitating a better view.

His face, a Nicole Kidman like frozen stare. He finally manages, “It’s all cool, man. What you do in your own home is up to you. But, can you keep it down, cause it was like, embarrassing loud”.

“Yeah, dude, I’ll see what I can do.” And with that, I close the door on misguided fashion plate Tristan.

Later that night while on the computer, Singher sprawled horizontally across the bed, I rethink that earlier conversation after the insane canine slobbers and licks her blanket. Repetitively. And audibly! Her impromptu session of tongue-the-flannel, followed with an impressive round of burps.

Smiling an evil smile, and loud enough that it just might be heard next door, I say, “Good Singher! Are you my dirty girl? Yes you are! Does my dirty girl want a raw hide? Come get it from daddy dirty girl.”

A few more slurps and burps like that, followed of course with appropriate narration, I’m willing to bet that Burberry boy and his raging ice queen sidekick will be gone in no time!