Hanging Chad: Observations From A Stairwell

On more than one occasion I've likened living in the Old Dutch Village condominiums to existing quite happily in a never ending episode of Seinfeld. Last night was no exception.

I stepped out onto the landing, Basil looking expectantly down the stairs to the courtyard doors, and was immediately caught by Chad's voice drifting down from the third floor landing.

Chad.

My Newman only much younger, and attractive.

Unlike Newman he isn't a loner, sharing the two bedroom above me with three other college students. He is, however, just as irritating and has been successfully driving me nuts with his behavior since moving in above me about a year ago.

While his roommates walk down the stairs, Chad feels it necessary to stomp down them, all three flights, with all the diligence of a contractor testing the durability of his product before calling the job complete. He especially enjoys this late at night and very early in the morning, perhaps having been born knowing not only how much it irritates me but also that, as the only non-soundproof area in the building, the foyer should be exploited to its maximum noisiness.

On no less than three occasions Chad has almost knocked me into the mailboxes because he flew through the courtyard doors at something just short of ninety miles an hour.

Four times he nearly ran me over in the parking lot and two weeks ago we exchanged words because he cut me off in the laundry room. This is a deft and insensitive move whereby he went to the laundry room where I had just deposited a load of wash and liberally added powdered detergent. Suddenly remembering I had another dark item I could toss in, I went upstairs to retrieve it only to return not five minutes later to find my wash removed from the machine and shoved back into my basket -- soap and all -- and his laundry happily churning away.

I admit we exchanged words over that one a few minutes later when I knocked on his door. True, I got an apology, but only by reminding him that I knew his landlord and would be only too Happy, at that moment, to call him and share my feelings about his tenant selections.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But you've gotta realize I'm young, I'm just a college kid trying to get by."

The final irritation with Chad is his Parade of Girls. I have never seen more twenty somethings in my life, especially not in one location. Every evening, someone new up the stairs. And always, in the foyer at high Chad-volume as they leave, "Baby, I'll call you. I love you -- I'll call."

Secretly I consoled myself with the thought that eventually one of them would wise up and figure him out. Someday cocky, arrogant, insensitive Chad would receive a reality check from the universe.

The check arrived as Basil and I stepped onto the landing last night.

"I THOUGHT WE HOOKED UP LAST NIGHT!" This at high twenty-something female volume.

"Baby, we did, we did -- you need to chill...we really did..." This from Chad at slow, smooth, 'dig-myself-from-this-very-deep-hole' volume.

"YOU LIAR!" This loud enough to perhaps break the soundproof barrier. "I READ YOUR FACEBOOK YOU JERK!"

Honestly?

I wanted to hear this.

I am not a mean-spirited or vengeful person. A judge awarded me half of my ex-husband's pension and I never filed to claim it, but I was secretly delighted when his big screen TV blew up for no reason on Superbowl weekend.

This, I wanted to hear.

But Basil, now seated by the doors and lowering her head as if she'd just been consigned to the dog pound, won out. Yes, I'd love to have stayed to eavesdrop on Chad's demise but my dog comes first. Just ask anyone who knows either of us. It was enough to know that the universe had finally called on Mr. Chad to let him know he was not really "all that" - - or the bag of chips that came with it.

Twenty minutes later Basil and I are back and I'm surprised to still hear voices from the third floor.

Honestly?

I took a moment to reacquaint myself with the fact that I am a grown up and grown ups do not linger in stairwells (not even when they're disguising the fact that they are thus lingering by scrutinizing the kick plate on their door to check for defects) when their irritating neighbors are getting their rightful comeuppance. The thing to do was to unlock the door, go inside, and go on with life.

Um, OK, but ---

Door unlocked, Basil unleashed.

Door shut.

I'm just on the wrong side of it, technically speaking.

"Baby, you know that really meant something to me! How many times can I say it --"

"YOU TEXTED HER. SHE SHOWED ME!"

"Oh, baby, oh..." and here conversation, if it can be called that, faded. Faded because he kissed her.

Yes, even that you could hear.

"But your FACEBOOK..." she more or less gushed.

"Oh, baby -- c'mon. You know me, right?"

And apparently she mistakenly thought she did because he realized perhaps the stairwell wasn't the best location for this conversation (if it can even be called that). I heard a door open and shut...and that was it. As I said earlier, this place is soundproof. Built like a bunker.

So OK, I thought, the universe gave Mr. Irritating Chad a break. Karma is on vacation this week at an all-inclusive in Mexico.

Like any new day, this morning had its way of presenting the world in a new light should you only take a moment to look.

Walking to my carport I kept an eye toward Chad's, never anxious to let down my guard and have him finally accidentally run me over. To my surprise, his car was in its carport, just....smaller.

Detouring, I took a look.

Thinking to myself as I did, that poor Chad was at that moment soundly sleeping, convinced he'd dodged one more bullet and managed not to lose Float #1 in his Parade of Girls.

Worse than he or anyone deserves, I thought, on closer inspection. But still.

Poor Chad.

Three of four tires, flat as a pancake, and a simple lipsticked message on his windshield:

"I READ THE TEXTS"

I am so glad I am not Chad, twenty-something and in the process of being educated beyond my intelligence.