Neighbors

1

For some unknown reason, I have always been somewhat of a weirdo magnet. If there is an old lady with crinkled up newspapers as shoes and a tin-foil hat proselytizing fire and brimstone theology anywhere within a hundred-mile radius, you can bet that I'm going to run into her. This odd magnetism also seems to have determined my neighbors over the years, because I've lived next to some pretty unique folk. With 'quirky' being the lowest common denominator, they have ranged from harmless to walking-time-bomb.

The latter is a rather spot-on characterization of Enola, a pre-op tranny who lived on the same floor of the apartment I had my junior year of college. I have no personal aversion to homosexuals and the trans-gendered, as long as they are nice people. As my luck usually dictates, however, this was not the case here. His real name was Angus, but he only answered to it during the day when he passed as a normal, hetero male. Normal until you heard him speak, anyway.

I have never encountered someone so full of hatred for everything and everyone. Before I met him, I considered myself somewhat of a misanthrope, but he made me look like that Pollyannish character Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live: ( "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!").

His alter ego's moniker was an apt description of his female persona, as the "Enola Gay" was the name of the plane that dropped the atom bomb on Hiroshima. It was hard enough dealing with Angus, but when Enola came out to play, I learned pretty quickly to steer clear. I could always tell which identity he was using by the music that would blare at all hours of the night. Angus favored more introspective music like Morrisey and the Cure, while Enola blasted brash noise outfits like the Birthday Party and Big Black. I happen to like Big Black, but not at 4:30AM when I have an exam the following morning.

The weekend that I moved in I knocked on his door around dinner time and introduced myself. His place was an utter squat, and the entire five minutes I forced myself to stay out of cordiality all he did was go on and on about "his nigger Ben" who did all of his cooking. By this, of course, he was referring to Uncle Ben's microwaveable dinners. And I had to live next to this guy for an entire year.

On the other end of the spectrum, the gentleman who lived directly above me in Wilmington turned out to be a real sweetheart, albeit with a lunatic's demeanor. A curios looking middle-aged man whose entire wardrobe consisted of combat boots, army camouflage pants and shrunken black t-shirts, I saw him walking in the building a few days after I moved in, carrying three grocery bags full of bananas. I approached him in the hallway as I was leaving.

"Hey, you must live upstairs. My name's Kevin," I said with an outstretched hand. He looked confused, as if he clearly didn't understand the foreign gesture. Sensing the awkward silence, I quickly stuffed my hand back in my pocket.

"Slyocomous," he said, flashing a clumsy smile.

Here we go again.

"Um, is that your first name?"

"Last. It's Ferlongatong. Ferlongatong P. Slyocomous."

Dare I ask?

"The P. Phillip? Patrick?"

"Pachumbang."

Having been down this road before, I figured it best to try and say something funny, and retreat as soon as possible. "What's with all the bananas? Do you have a simian roommate I need to know about?" Again, my query triggered a puzzled response.

"Groceries," he said matter-of-factly.

2

The longer I lived there, the more strange my upstairs neighbor appeared. While he looked like a stern, punk rock drill sergeant, he seemed to have a predilection for seventies soft rock, particularly Joan Baez and Juice Newton. Then there were the bananas. As far as I could tell, it was all he ate. Every attempt I made at getting to know him better only further added to his mystique. Always polite, any question I asked invariably elicited the same, befuddled response.

One night I was laying in bed, listening to "Angel in the Morning" permeate through my ceiling. I was wondering if "Ferlongatong" was of Greek origin, when I heard shouting from my bedroom window. I looked out and saw my neighbors gathered in a mob, pointing across the street and covering their mouths in horror.

Clouds of thick black smoke poured from the windows of a duplex catycorner from our apartment building. For the first time since I moved in there, I heard the music upstairs stop. Gaining momentum as he descended the stairs three at a time, the mighty Slyocomous cut through the mob as swiftly as if the people themselves were a gaseous mass not unlike the smoke billowing from the duplex.

Minutes later, the crowd let out a collective sigh of relief, followed by cathartic cheers and applause. My inscrutable upstairs neighbor emerged from the doorway with a little girl wrapped tight around his neck and a charred teddy bear in his left hand.

After the firetrucks and police cars dispersed and people finally began to wander back to their homes, I walked over to where Slyocomous was apparently going through the painstaking process of spelling out his name for reporters.

"F-E-R-L-O-N-G-A-T-O-N-G," he said, pronouncing each letter carefully.

"Is that Greek or something?" I heard one of the reporters ask.

That's life--sometimes you're stuck with an Enola, other times you're blessed with a Slyocomous. More than likely, you'll end up encountering both.