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My Brother's Keeper
15 years ago
Welcome to The Sideshow
My next door neighbor was discovered dead in his apartment this evening.
Apparently he had been dead for nearly a week.
Which means I was the last person to see him alive, and the last person to talk to him.
He was about my age, early 40s. When I saw him last weekend, his harassing ex-wife had just paid her weekly visit to shout at him. He was standing outside, looking as though he were in the middle of an extremely bad hallucinogenic trip. My attempt at small talk was met with a rather bizarre and uncomfortable response as he appeared uncertain as to whether the figure standing in front of him was, in fact, the demon he was hallucinating me to be. Unsure of how to respond, and not certain whether or not his bad trip would cause him to behave in a violent manner, I attempted a goodnight and beat a hasty retreat.
The next morning, I could hear him screaming periodically inside of his apartment. Not knowing whether he was still hallucinating or simply angry, I did nothing but become irritated at him. I didn't check to see if he was alright. It didn't even dawn on me to do so.
Tonight, when I got home from work, I heard the familiar THUD-THUD-THUD at his front door and knew immediately that it was his ex, with their pre-teen daughter waiting outside in the car. (She often employed their daughter to shout at him as well, the two of them screaming "freakshow" at his window.) It was then that I realized as I had walked through the front door that evening ... that a management letter that had been distributed to all of the tenants on Tuesday was still attached to the clip next to his front door. As I opened my front door to peek out, she immediately looked in my direction and asked if I had seen him. I said no, and suggested he might have gone out of town. When she showed me his car in the parking lot, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I pointed her in the direction of a maintenance worker I had seen standing outside and went back into my apartment. Before too long, both of them were pounding at the door and I could hear a small group of people gathering as well, wondering what was going on.
After about 30 minutes, I heard them smash a window open. And then, even in my apartment, all I had to do was breathe and hear the gasps outside to confirm my fear. It's a nightmarish odor, and one that I hope never to experience again.
While the gawkers stood in the doorway and covered their noses and mouths, I stayed inside and quietly freaked out - and contemplated the reality of having slept and eaten, showered and gone about my everyday routines and rituals - unaware that a dead human body lay mere feet away from where I had done all of these things.
The police never came to talk to me, despite the fact that I lived right next door. I suppose that if he had died of an overdose or even natural causes, there would be no reason to question me. If they had, I would have told them of the hell that his ex-wife was clearly putting him through - the broken window, the hurling of ink through that window, the taunts and shouts that he endured regularly.
The daughter was still in the car, present when all of this happened. Her father's death became explicitly real to her in an instant. I can't even imagine what she's going through tonight.
And now I realize just how alone he really was. The full-decibel classic rock that I could hear through the wall every night seemed to be his only real companion and friend.
That night, the last night ... he had been listening to "The Wall" by Pink Floyd.
The police are gone. The fire-truck and the ambulance are gone. Once again, it's quiet outside. It's as if nothing had happened. As though he had been erased.
I didn't even know his name.
Apparently he had been dead for nearly a week.
Which means I was the last person to see him alive, and the last person to talk to him.
He was about my age, early 40s. When I saw him last weekend, his harassing ex-wife had just paid her weekly visit to shout at him. He was standing outside, looking as though he were in the middle of an extremely bad hallucinogenic trip. My attempt at small talk was met with a rather bizarre and uncomfortable response as he appeared uncertain as to whether the figure standing in front of him was, in fact, the demon he was hallucinating me to be. Unsure of how to respond, and not certain whether or not his bad trip would cause him to behave in a violent manner, I attempted a goodnight and beat a hasty retreat.
The next morning, I could hear him screaming periodically inside of his apartment. Not knowing whether he was still hallucinating or simply angry, I did nothing but become irritated at him. I didn't check to see if he was alright. It didn't even dawn on me to do so.
Tonight, when I got home from work, I heard the familiar THUD-THUD-THUD at his front door and knew immediately that it was his ex, with their pre-teen daughter waiting outside in the car. (She often employed their daughter to shout at him as well, the two of them screaming "freakshow" at his window.) It was then that I realized as I had walked through the front door that evening ... that a management letter that had been distributed to all of the tenants on Tuesday was still attached to the clip next to his front door. As I opened my front door to peek out, she immediately looked in my direction and asked if I had seen him. I said no, and suggested he might have gone out of town. When she showed me his car in the parking lot, I got a sick feeling in my stomach. I pointed her in the direction of a maintenance worker I had seen standing outside and went back into my apartment. Before too long, both of them were pounding at the door and I could hear a small group of people gathering as well, wondering what was going on.
After about 30 minutes, I heard them smash a window open. And then, even in my apartment, all I had to do was breathe and hear the gasps outside to confirm my fear. It's a nightmarish odor, and one that I hope never to experience again.
While the gawkers stood in the doorway and covered their noses and mouths, I stayed inside and quietly freaked out - and contemplated the reality of having slept and eaten, showered and gone about my everyday routines and rituals - unaware that a dead human body lay mere feet away from where I had done all of these things.
The police never came to talk to me, despite the fact that I lived right next door. I suppose that if he had died of an overdose or even natural causes, there would be no reason to question me. If they had, I would have told them of the hell that his ex-wife was clearly putting him through - the broken window, the hurling of ink through that window, the taunts and shouts that he endured regularly.
The daughter was still in the car, present when all of this happened. Her father's death became explicitly real to her in an instant. I can't even imagine what she's going through tonight.
And now I realize just how alone he really was. The full-decibel classic rock that I could hear through the wall every night seemed to be his only real companion and friend.
That night, the last night ... he had been listening to "The Wall" by Pink Floyd.
The police are gone. The fire-truck and the ambulance are gone. Once again, it's quiet outside. It's as if nothing had happened. As though he had been erased.
I didn't even know his name.
