sky light.

All of my years spent living in apartment complexes have never resembled the situations you see in movies and on TV. Sure, the space itself has a similar structure to many of them, the appliances are temperamental, and the walls rumble with some semblance of the story unfolding next door. But neighbors in reality are rarely like those who seem to have captured back story and current thread of those residing adjacently, nearby, and betwixt.

So, it certainly stands out when an airbrushed couple unloading a rental moving truck jump at the chance to introduce themselves to myself and my sensual partner in crime. It was primarily an exchange of names and acknowledgement that we'd be sharing a wall and an approximate floor plan. For the one bedroom shadow of an apartment they were moving into, their truck held a lot of goodies. That and their jumbo pick-up truck seemed filled to the hilt with the sort of sundry bits kids accumulate at their age, apparent spoilage, or low level of credit card understanding.

Though on the shallower side of their twenties, they were an attractive duo, in that young Hollywood sense that made my woman's and my brief interactions with them seem akin to the tolerable early moments of the fortunately panned TV series Swingtown. There was tightness and tone to their overtly tanned bodies that drew much suggestion from our combined wild imaginations, as to their going-ons and presumed willingness.

Newness takes time to create routine. On the one side of our building, we can hear what has always seemed like clumsy poltergeist activities involving furniture on every third day of the week. Their tiled floor could only have suffered in umbrage and physical damage unrepairable. Somehow their dog who we see much of, outside in person and in poop, seems to keep it down to a whisper inside. Their television and bass heavy instrument playing is far more notable than a peep, bark, or growl.

Moving into a new place brings with it desire. There's the desire to get settled in, by solidifying a home space as swiftly as feasible, and a desire for a couple of hot, sweaty folks to get their freak on in as many new spaces as possible. I think it's written in our DNA. I can only guess the amount of caves whose stalagmites may just hold some primitive love spray within it's glimmering layers.

Think about that the next time you're spelunking.

In anticipation of creating a home from nine cracked bare walls, I have found myself hammering a thing or two in the wee hours of the morning, if only to cover up that intrusive water stain. Unpacking can go long and extensively depending on just how expansive one's collection of trinkets and whatnot might be, to say nothing of the heightened energy level brought on by change.

On the one hand, the sounds on the other side of their wall at 3AM were indicative of the well chosen placement of a few framed posters, likely black light-ready or otherwise raised up from their origins from that art sale at the edge of the gas station lot. Or, on the other hand, the sounds were representative of the flushes of steady pounding, human racquetball in their final sticky throes. The disturbance was brief but noticeable. For a split second the noise seemed warranting of a walk through one courtyard and along a stretch of sidewalk to suggest our new neighbors keep it down. But when new people move in, it takes a few weeks to tap into their rhythms, so we thought it an isolated incident. Plus, we're the last two folks to be the proverbial asshole neighbors. So, we drifted back to sleep.

That was the last of that.

Several days passed and we heard through the grapevine that we had been in earshot of a late night B&E. In spite of the substandard parking lot that we lived with for so long, or the questionable gunshot pops in the middle of the night, and any number of other stereotypical details, this is an uncommon circumstance for this complex. Not that it makes it right, but it doesn't surprise me that some young kids moving in with some fancy, new shiny things in broad daylight who then left for a week long foray somewhere else would be a shout out to local chaos.

They were, as they say, asking for trouble.

The following weekend, after a fantastic evening at our favorite pub, my lady and I pulled into our lot. We stepped out of the car, in a likely too-buzzed-to-drive, getting-a-bit-handsy-and-frisky-to-boot condition. Out of the shadows stepped a dark figure. We could hear the leaves rustling and saw the whites of his eyes before piecing together that our community evidently had stirred up a quick fix security guard to man our dark corner of the rental kingdom.

And boy could the guy talk! Maybe he talked too much. He was going on about all of the apartment's efforts to remedy this singular situation by planting him during such and such hours, by considering putting up barbed wire of all things, and every other detail that maybe isn't necessary to go into with every person encountered. How awkward, though, to have some stranger lurking outside our windows with quick chatter on his lips and gun on a holster. I have never been one who enjoyed the thought of living in a gated community, so the thought of local security never really drove me wild either. Fire begets fire. You get what you give. You see, I feel people have more control over their own lives and what disrupts it than most could digest.

But there he was: our regular welcome home greeter, as it were. It was damage control. It didn't make me feel any more comfortable. Then again, I wasn't worried that it was suddenly an epidemic. I feel that's a lot of people's first thought. Worry. Fear. Paranoia. It's weaved deeply into our culture.

Jump forward a month or two. The security situation is becoming more and more unnecessary. I suppose it must have started to be a monetary and superfluous burden on our complex, because as swiftly as the security team showed up, their disappearance occurred equally fast.

In their place sprouted a big wooden pole, amongst our comforting tree canopy. Then out of seemingly nowhere, a street light companion grew out of it, like an unexpected social glom. Suddenly there was a UFO in constant hover mode above our ordinarily darkened courtyard, emitting an off-color disconcerting orangey glow that began spending the evening, night, and dawn with us. It was no doubt some small panel's answer to our local crime, but an insulting eyesore and interference to enjoying any outdoor ambiance. Screw our string of comforting blue lights, or multi-colored strand, or even candles. Hell, our front porch light has become obsolete! Our enjoyment of our courtyard is now restricted to daylight hours and in anticipation of the cooler weather of the same.

The punishment certainly doesn't answer the crime. I'll tell you that.

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