A Letter to Our Upstairs Neighbors

Dear upstairs neighbors,

Hi, it’s us, the couple who lives below you. I know we’ve only met face-to-face a few times, but I’m writing you this letter because we need to talk. And since we can’t talk in person (social distancing and whatnot — which you don’t seem to observe [more on this later]), and since I’m awful about confronting people in real life even during non-pandemic times, then this letter (which you’ll never read) is the best option right now.

I know no one likes being compared to prior tenants — it’s a little like being compared to exes — but if you’ll allow me, I’d like to begin before you moved in. We never really met our old upstairs neighbors. There were two of them: a man and a woman — friends, not a couple, both of them in their early 20s. We saw them maybe twice the entire two years they were our upstairs neighbors. And what’s better: we hardly ever heard them. Maybe once every two or three months we could hear their TV, but the sound was muffled and relatively muted. They were great upstairs neighbors, kind and considerate of the people living below them.

And then you moved in. Almost immediately the biggest difference we noticed was how loudly you walk. The clomping from bedroom to living room to kitchen. And you’re night owls, too — often up very late. Who wears shoes in their apartment at 3am? You do, apparently.

But it wasn’t just the loud footsteps, it was the sour smell of weed. You guys smoke up A LOT. Like, is there ever a time when you’re at home when you’re not high? Although I don’t like smoking pot, I know a lot of other people do. I want marijuana to be decriminalized. But at the same time, I don’t want to smell your weed in our apartment. This was especially noticeable when you moved in over the summer and we had our windows open most evenings.

Along with the weed was the music. Of all the offenses — loud footsteps, the smell of weed — it’s the music that really irritates me the most. Now, lest you think this is just the ranting of a 36-year-old geezer, I’d like to say that I like music. I listen to music a lot myself! We listen to very different types of music (me: modern classical, punk, indie, pop; you: techno), but I like music. What I don’t like is hearing your bass thumping through our ceiling. Why in god’s name do you have such a powerful subwoofer on a third floor New York City apartment??? It’s not so much how loud your music is — although it can get pretty loud at times — it’s the bass. Even if the music in your apartment is at a reasonable volume, the bass is still coming through to us.

The first time we met was at three in the morning. You were clomping around in shoes and playing music. You woke both of us up, and we couldn’t get back to sleep. We laid in bed for close to half an hour before Kaitlin finally decided we needed to go up and say something. So we put on our pajamas and walked the one flight up. We rang the buzzer outside your door. No answer. We knew you were home — not only could we hear you, but your lights were on. (I should’ve known then you were monsters — you used the harsh overhead lights instead of lamps.) As soon as you heard the buzzer, you stopped talking. We rang the buzzer again. Finally, the door opened.

There were three of you. I really only remember the one who opened the door. You were young, probably in your early 20s, and East Asian — maybe Filipino? You wore glasses. You looked a little scared. The other two of you were further back. East Asian as well. One of you was overweight. All of you were wearing shoes.

I don’t remember this interaction well, but we introduced ourselves as your downstairs neighbors. We said we couldn’t sleep because we could hear you walking around. I distinctly remember the overweight guy denying this. That’s when I stopped liking him. You, the one who opened the door, apologized and said you’d be going to bed soon. The whole conversation was maybe 30 seconds, if that.

There was this other time when I wasn’t home and Kaitlin went up to ask you to turn down your bass. She even asked you to come down to our apartment so you could hear how it sounded to us. I thought for sure this would solve our problem — now you’d know what it sounded like from our perspective. But you’re clearly sociopaths, as this hasn’t fundamentally changed your behavior.

We also started texting our landlord. Any time your music was too loud or going on too late (keep in mind that we go to bed around 10/10:30, right when it seems like you’re coming home), then we’d text our landlord and ask him to text you to turn the music down. This works, though it’s far from a desirable solution. I hate having to bother our landlord twice a week just to get you guys to turn down your fucking music.

We’ve also on several occasions used a broom to bang on our ceiling like we’re some kind of stock characters in a movie set in New York City. I like this tactic for two reasons: 1) it’s a way for me to get some frustration out by banging the broom and 2) you often think it’s someone knocking on your door — I like to imagine you think it’s the cops. What usually happens is that your music cuts off completely. Then, when you realize it’s not someone at the door, you turn your music down. This solution is fine, but I prefer getting the landlord involved so he’s aware just how often this happens.

This was our new normal after you moved in. You finally — after several months — began to mask the smell of your weed. At first this involved some very strong aerosol spray that permeated the entire stairwell in the apartment building. Our landlord was worried that this stuff wasn’t safe to breathe in, and ever since then you haven’t used that chemical spray. I’m not quite sure where or how you smoke up now, but thank you for controlling the smell. This is one thing I can say in your favor.

But the music and the clomping have only improved marginally. It got to the point where we had to buy a white noise machine to drown out your noise. This works pretty well, although I still wake up at least two or three times a week when you clomp your way to bed at 3 or 4 in the morning. Kaitlin gives you the benefit of the doubt — maybe you work as bartenders or nurses, hence the odd hours. I’m a less forgiving person than Kaitlin, so I assume that you stay up late because you don’t have many responsibilities since you’re young and carefree and inconsiderate.

Either way, you’re adversely affecting our sleep. I read a whole book about sleep last year, and it’s amazing how easily the quality of our sleep can be affected without our necessarily being aware. For example, in my old apartment, the Q104 bus would wake me up several times a night as it revved up 48th Street. It’s only now, in hindsight, that I’m able to identify how that messed with the quality of my sleep. And now you’re doing the same thing with your clomping around.

All of this kind of came to a head on Friday night. Friday was a frustrating day in general — another long day at work where I started around 9:15 and didn’t take a break until I finished my day at 5:30. Still, I had a good amount of energy after work, so I decided to assemble an exercise bike that we bought so we could try to maintain some level of exercise during these very sedentary times. The bike didn’t turn out to be too difficult to assemble, but it still took me around 45 minutes or an hour to complete. Then, once I was all ready to give it a spin, I realized that the pedals were locked in place. I couldn’t push them forward or backward. I thought this was maybe just some strange factory setting to prevent the pedals from spinning around while they were being transported. I saw the bike’s customer service line was already closed for the day, but I made a note to call them first thing the next morning. (Spoiler alert: the brand new bike was, indeed, broken.)

Work and the broken bike were the first two strikes. The third strike came around 10pm, right as we were wrapping up an episode of Peep Show before bed. That’s when you came clomping into your apartment and playing loud music while smoking up with friends. The upstairs neighbors trifecta! Music, weed, and ignoring social distancing! It’s been very clear to us in the past two months that you guys aren’t really sheltering in place. If anything, it seems like you’re sticking to your normal routines of going out or having people over. And look, I get it — you’re young and probably feel like you’re invincible, but you’re being really fucking irresponsible right now.

I’ve never seen the 1993 Michael Douglas movie Falling Down, but my understanding is that it’s the story of this ordinary guy who has a really shitty day. The compounding effect of these negative interactions and encounters causes him to turn increasingly violent. That’s a more extreme example of how I felt on Friday, and your inconsiderate behavior sent me over the edge. I’m tired of the music. I’m tired of the clomping around. I’m tired of your bullshit.

I told Kaitlin that I’ve fantasized about bashing down your door. I’m not a violent person by nature, but you’ve nearly pushed me to that breaking point. I could tell Kaitlin was startled by this, and probably more than a little worried. She doesn’t want me to do anything illegal or that would get me in trouble, and I appreciate her concern. I don’t want to do anything rash, either. It’s just that, in the moment, it was hard not to identify with Michael Douglas’ character.

Kaitlin often reminds me that things could be worse. And it’s true, our upstairs neighbors could be worse. For example, my sister, back when she was living in Astoria, had a truly awful guy who would show up drunk and bang on one of her neighbor's doors to be let in. Whoever lived in that apartment rarely let him in (probably because he was drunk and screaming), so he’d just bang and bang and bang and yell and yell and yell until he exhausted himself and left. The cops came maybe once or twice, but it didn’t stop this guy from showing up.

So yes, we don’t have anything like that going on, it’s true. But just because it could be worse doesn’t mean we should have to tolerate your bullshit. Another thing Kaitlin says is that we live in New York City — of course there’s going to be some amount of noise pollution. If it’s not the upstairs neighbors then it’s the people walking outside at all hours of the night. This is not a quiet city. And again, she’s right — I don’t expect New York City to go silent. (Although now, when most everyone is staying at home all the time, it is remarkably quiet out there.) But just because there’s the expectation of noise doesn’t mean we should just roll over and take it.

Ultimately, this is my gripe with you, upstairs neighbors: Your infringing on our space feels like yet another example of an injustice that I just have to grin and bear. I’ve been doing this my whole life, from bullies in elementary school to unsympathetic supervisors at work to any number of bullshit microaggressions. There’s so much stuff in the world that’s out of our control that it seems like this is something we should be able to fix. I don’t know how many texts to our landlord it will take, or how many times we’ll have to bang our ceiling, but after a while something has to change. It hasn’t in the two or so years you’ve been our upstairs neighbors, but dear god, surely it has to at some point, right?

Yesterday, when Kaitlin asked me what I was going to write about this weekend and I said I didn’t know, she suggested I write a letter to the upstairs neighbors. It was a good idea (clearly I have a lot to say to them) because it’s a therapeutic way for me to vent without going Michael Douglas on anyone.

I’d just like to leave you with this parting thought, upstairs neighbors: You were annoying before we had a global pandemic, but now your behavior feels even worse. Now is not the time for anyone to think only about themselves. Now is not the time for selfishness. So please, step outside your tiny bubble and consider the other people around you. Think about us, your downstairs neighbors. And if you want to listen to music past 10:30, by all means, go for it — just buy a pair of fucking headphones.

Sincerely,
Your downstairs neighbors