“Meeting the Neighbors”

This is the fourth in an infinite part series about life after college.  You can read the previous entries here, here, and here.

Six months have now passed since the first installment of “Life After College,” and I’m sure many of you (i.e. the beneficiaries in my will) are eager to know how I am progressing.  I am proud to report that – despite numerous setbacks (i.e. an ongoing battle with the California DMV, a debilitating fear of females, and a net worth approaching $5,000 in credit card debt) – I have made some serious inroads into the world of responsible adult living.  For example, I recently traded my garbage bags for a piece of luggage that is allowed on airplanes.  I will now occasionally understand one or two words on CNBC.  And – most significantly – I purchased my first broom and I think I’ve figured out how to work it.

But I’m not here to celebrate.  Never one to rest on my lapels (that’s the expression, right?), I am pressing on to the next challenge of adulthood: meeting my neighbors.  As far as I can tell, interacting with one’s neighbors is a uniquely adult activity.  Sure, I grew up playing with neighborhood kids, but those were fairly one-dimensional friendships requiring only that they (1) not be girls and (2) have an appreciation of the three elements: LEGOs, mud, and fire – preferably all at the same time.  Adult neighbors are different.  They require adult things like common interests, wives, or alcohol.

I realized during my senior year of college that I was probably unsuited for neighborhood cook outs and block parties.  For starters, there was the natural (and usually justified) association of violence and delinquency with houses occupied by young men.  But even if that wasn’t the case, I still wouldn’t be getting invited to the weekly poker game at 4539 Twin Oaks Dr.  This is because I’m not very good at performing neighborly duties like “talking to grown ups” or “being quiet after 10 o’clock.” These deficiencies make conversing and recreating with my neighbors more than a little tricky.  Not wanting to fight my genetic composition, I created a safety mechanism which would protect me from having to befriend the people around me: I assumed everyone living near me was a serial killer.

On the one hand, this device was impressively effective in its ability to remove all compulsion or obligation to interact with the local “community”.  On the other hand, it led to a truly terrifying night during the second semester of that year when I was convinced that my neighbor (who we had determined to be a psychotic mailman who ate mostly squirrels) was burrowing through the wall next to my bed.

This paradigm was turned on its head the following year when our neighbors apparently assumed we were serial killers.  I can’t imagine what else would compel them to call the police to our house eight times over a ten month span.  Needless to say, our relationship never really took off.

When I decided to move across the country, I chose to leave my suspicions and squirrel stories behind me.  From what I had heard, California was populated entirely by atheists, sodomites, and yoga instructors and I figured friends wouldn’t exactly be a dime a dozen.  That meant I no longer had the luxury of ignoring the heavily-tattooed blackjack dealer next door just because he was obsessed with Ice Road Truckers and probably ate squirrels.

Unfortunately, for all my good intentions, I still had no idea how to go about approaching a stranger with the gift of my friendship.  Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to.  My downstairs neighbor solved my shyness for me when he left the following note in front of my door (Note: this has been transcribed word for word.  Trust me, I couldn’t make this up):

“My Dear Neighbor,

I am (his name) staying at Apartment X11 and How You been Feelin’.  As for me I am Very Healthy and more Alive than Ever.  Let me greet you a Very Pleasant Day Today for being so Manageable in the Neighborhood.  Please feel welcome to introduce yourself.  I do Not know you well enough to understand the good movement we know and follow.  I know the rules and Laws of being a Very Good Neighbor.  I am under your stairs.

Very Truly Yours,
your Friendly Neighbor“

As a general rule, I am wary of foreigners under my stairs, but, like they say, badgers can’t be choosers, right? (I still don’t understand what that expression means.)  Wrong!  I won’t bore you with the details, but my subsequent interactions with the letter’s author revealed a dangerously imbalanced, probably schizophrenic man whose habit of following me to the gym and ringing my doorbell at 6 a.m. resulted in my reporting him to local authorities.  Also, I think I may have seen him eating a squirrel.

Turns out, some neighbors are serial killers and should be reported the police.  But probably not all of them!  Adult Kent isn’t going to let one mentally unstable apple derail him like college Kent would.  In fact, right after I post this, I’m going to go introduce myself to the new people across the street!

Just as soon as I figure out how to translate “the good movement we know and follow” into Spanish that is.

With my recent migration from Chicago to California many aspects of my post-collegiate life have changed significantly.  Not only did I trade gang violence for illegal immigration and political corruption for political incompetence, I also went from living with four guys in an enormous house (read: trash can) to living by myself in a tiny apartment (read: walk-in closet).  This transition has been difficult.  There is no longer an endless supply of toilet paper in the bathroom down the hall.  Quandaries like, “should I eat three of my roommate’s four remaining eggs and be regarded as considerate or eat all four and hope they forget they ever had them?” are no longer relevant.  Since the cable bill is no longer being split five ways, I now have to think twice before ordering “Confessions of a Shopaholic” twice in the same weekend.  The list goes on.

I feel like that old dude in Shawshank who gets released on parole but ends up killing himself because he missed prison so much.  I’m not suicidal or anything, I’m just having a difficult time adjusting to a life of functioning appliances and insect-free beds.  I’ve been institutionalized and I’m sure I’m not alone.  With that in mind, my third post-collegiate survival guide will provide pragmatic rules for navigating the trials, tribulations, and emotional traumas of solitary living.  If you are married (i.e. taking the easy way out) you can go ahead and stop reading now.

1)      Put some pants on.  I know you don’t have to, but do it because you want to.  You will go days on end without meaningful human contact.  Pants are all you have left.  Thanks to advances in modern science, pants are one of the few remaining things that separate us from monkeys and lower-form humans.  With movies like Dunsten Checks In and Mighty Joe Young becoming increasingly prevalent, this won’t last long.  Enjoy your remaining connection to the human race while it lasts.  Put on some pants.

2)      Standing shirtless in front of the kitchen sink eating a raw hotdog does not count as “dinner.”  Sure it’s delicious, but can’t you at least microwave it first?  Why not chop it up into some ramen or mash it up with some Corn Flakes or something?  Sit down.  Put a shirt on (I feel weird having to tell you to put clothes on for a second time).  Use some sort of utensil.  The fact that you have the social life of a toddler doesn’t mean you have to eat like one.  Get a hold of yourself, man.

3)      Talking to yourself and/or yelling at made-for-TV movies is normal and acceptable behavior.  Talking to your appliances and lunch sandwiches is not.  I agree the toaster did a commendable job of toasting that bread.  You don’t have to thank it.  That’s what it’s there for.  Similarly, that PB&J knows it will be delicious when you have it for lunch tomorrow.  You don’t need to tell it how excited you are about eating it.  It, unlike you, is not struggling with an unfulfilled love language.

4)      It’s okay to go through the drive-thru twice because you were enjoying the first “conversation” you’d had all day.  It is, however, considered good form to order something different on the second lap.  This way, the girl at the window can make herself believe it was an honest mistake –for the third day in a row.

5)      Facebook can be a healthy diversion and welcome reminder that you used to have friends.  There are, however, some unacceptable activities.  These include: going back to September 2006 and reading everything posted to your wall in the past three years, creating a fake profile and using it to post comments on your wall about the “bitchin time the gang had last weekend,” and “liking” anything.  (Note: this is more of a general exhortation for all to follow.)  Some additional rules: You should not use Facebook if you’ve been drinking (or crying).  You should not get on Facebook if you are within 100 miles of your high school yearbooks.  Facebook should never be visited within 24-hours of watching “Can’t Hardly Wait.”  Remember, some people can handle their Facebook; you cannot.  Restraint is the only way you’re going to survive.

As some of you have already ascertained, none of these glorious things happened to me.  But, rather than focus on the considerable gap between me and the growing list of 85ers who have arrived, I would like to talk about a few of my own not-insignificant acheivements last year.  Namely, I managed to keep myself alive for almost a full year without the support of an academic institution or my parents.

If this sounds like an insignificant feat to you, consider that our last president and many of my professors could not say the same thing.  Somehow, in a display of resolve and ingenuity nothing short of a Darwinian miracle, I have found ways to clean, clothe, and feed myself  for going on ten months.  A few near-fatal missteps notwithstanding, this world has not gotten the best of me yet, and the future is looking bright as I have food stuffs to last for at least another fortnight.  As one might expect, my epic struggle for survival has brought with it a rich bounty of tips, cons, tricks, and rackets essential to surviving the Desert of the Third Decade.  As an educator and friend of humanity, I would be remiss if I did not pass along the hard-fought wisdom I have acquired in the trenches of the post-collegiate, pre-apocalyptic moonscape we call “The Real World.”

So, without further ado, allow me to present the first of an infinite part series known as “The Beginning of the End: Life After College,” wherein I share tips for surviving the three arenas of the modern gladiator: professional, social, and domestic.  Observe.  Enjoy.  Imitate.

1. The agregate value of HBO’s Original Programming far surpasses the accompanying cost of living in a house that is 10 degrees colder in the winter and 10 degrees hotter in the summer than it otherwise would be.
2. No one, and I mean NO ONE (not a jilted-lover, not an overbearing boss, not a heroine dealer, not an accidental baby, not a 37 year-old cougar, not ANYONE) can ruin your life as thoroughly or as quickly as a negligent land-lord can.
3. Dish soap is over-priced and overrated.  If you need to wash a dish, follow these steps: 1) Turn on faucet. 2) Heat water to lukewarm. 3) Place “dirty” dish under faucet. 4) Hold there until all visible bits of food, carpet, dirt, and hair have been rinsed off. 5) Dry the dish on your shirt.
4. Coffee tables are terrible, terrible ideas.  Coffee tables are garbage cans with legs.  Anything put on a coffee table – be it a burger wrapper, a half-eaten taco, a banana peel, or an old issue of Vibe – will remain there until the occupants of the house move out.  If you must have a foot rest, drag a trash can into the living room and set it in front of the couch.  This is both more efficient and more honest.
5. The “Drink Until it Gets Better” maxim is not an advisable method for addressing physical or emotional pain.  While significantly cheaper than psychiatric care, it is easily abused and often results in further physical and emotional pain.  Due to its volatility, this method of self-medication should be saved for The Holidays or forced interactions with married friends.

It is impossible to overstate the lethargy that my generation is capable of. Truly, it defies credulity and the furthest reaches of the imagination. If it weren’t for the civilizing effects of Christian marriage, I am convinced that none of us would live to see thirty. Temporary fixes like jobs, and visits from mom can force short bursts of exertion, but they do not touch the languid gene that controls the minds and limbs of my peers. Allow me to cite some unsubstantiated, anecdotal evidence to affirm this.

I once lived in a house that was rendered unlivable by a tragic light bulb shortage. Lights burned out; rooms were abandoned. For two weeks I brushed my teeth in the kitchen and showered in darkness because no one was willing to make the 5 minute trip to Target for fresh bulbs.

For the past three months I have been living in a completely unlocked house. Now, Wheaton is a pretty decent town, but it’s no security patrolled, gated community either. The usual suburban riff raff – hoboes, maniacal mailmen, roving bands of teenagers, etc – are still prowling about. So why not lock up? Missing key? Broken locks? Nope. The key sits on the counter and the doors sit unlocked because no one is willing to spend $10 and twenty minutes at Home Depot making copies for all the roommates.

Once, my house was down to a single roll of TP. Rather than going to get some more (again, requiring an errand) we decided to ration what we had. Every person was given 10 squares of TP with the opportunity to petition for more if they could prove need. When this failed, we began going to friend’s houses.

We would rather throw trash on the floor next to a full can then empty it. We would rather throw away dirty clothes than clean them. We are all controlled by a bewildering, counterintuitive, counterproductive slothfulness that can not be shaken or defeated; it can only be nagged into remission by the presence of an attractive woman. Some have already found the cure. For those of us unfit for female company (like Conor), the future is bleak. For those of us too lazy to pursue a female (like me), it is even bleaker.