The Day Kappa Kappa Killed My Youth
I knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again. Waited.
I walked into their house in my bare feet and my pajamas, hair wild, no bra, middle-of-the-night-breath. I suppose it was as scary as I’ve been seen in public ever in my life. I stood in the kitchen and waited for someone to notice me but they were dancing pretty hard, and it was super dark anyway. Aside from the strobe lights that blinked, synchronized to the low thumps of the rap music that bounced the pictures up and down on the adjoining wall between their living room and mine, I could hardly see a thing without my glasses on.
Then they saw me. Their faces lit up in recognition, then dropped in the panic of realizing why I must be standing in their living room at 2:30 in the morning.
It went downhill from there.
They yes m’am’d me to death as I waved my arms like a bona fide crazy person and said “Don’t you <expletive> work?” and “This is a <expletive> movie! That movie! You know the one…. where the <expletive> frat boys move into the nice, quiet neighborhood? I’m in a <expletive> movie!”
They turned the music off but then I listened to them for a few more hours as they talked on the back deck, over the water, in the kind of amplified voices that come along with booze and cigarettes. Like, oh my God. It was, like, so, like…. loud. Yanno what I mean?
I bought them Krispy Kremes the next day, to apologize for my colorful and unladylike behavior. Then I knocked on that same door again in a deja vu kind of moment and they yelled for me to come in, certain that it was one of their buddies
…and not the Evil Old Lady from next door.
I am now the Evil Old Lady from next door.
When they saw me, they jumped to their feet as fast as their wicked hangovers would allow, almost dropping their vaping thingies, and said absolutely. not. one. word. to me. It was pure terror on their faces. I asked them for a clean slate. That is, I asked them for a clean slate right after I reminded them about how punchy I get on three hours of sleep. They got the point, and they agreed to do better.
Their power got shut off the next day, because they don’t have jobs.
And I have to take their trash out for them or the raccoons come and plunder at night, and drag our garbage up and down the street.
And I watched one of them almost burn his eyebrows off as he tried to learn how to light their new propane grill. Clueless.
And all their bedspreads are soaked from being left on the back deck, since apparently their mommies forgot to tell them it storms on the beach rather often. Now they have no blankets to sleep with.
And the strange aroma of cotton candy and watermelon coming from our (meaning…Ben’s) dirty laundry pile has to be because of them, I always think.
And I learned that my 16 year old is their designated driver on a regular basis, unbeknownst to me. Probably in my car, too.
Poor kids. I could kill them.
Adulting is kicking their asses right now. It’s a little funny, and y’all, it’s always loud over there.
And I’ve become the Evil Old Lady from next door, which is absolutely not funny at all.
Author’s Note: A short but loooooong eight months after they first came into my life, I saw the tell-tale signs of The Dad’s truck backed into their driveway, packing up the condo and taking them back home. Managing an adult life is not easy. I wish them the best. I liked them a little bit, but I like them a lot more now that they aren’t living next door to me, sharing their vaping things with my kid and asking him to come pick them up from the local bars in the middle of the night.