Eleven years is long enough to become part of a building’s rhythm. To be the kind of neighbor people trust with their spare keys and their package deliveries and the knowledge of where the maintenance request forms are kept, because you’ve lived there long enough to know and you’ve always been the kind of person who pays attention.
I am that person.
Margaret Collier, apartment 3B, eleven years in residence, the one who knows where the forms are.
I signed for his packages all last winter. All of them — the ones that arrived on cold Tuesday mornings when I was already running late and had to rearrange my entire entry hall to stack them somewhere logical so they’d be safe until he collected them. I watched Mrs. Okafor’s cat in 2C for ten days last spring when she went to visit her daughter, including the day the cat knocked a full vase of water onto my laptop and looked absolutely unrepentant about it. I have been the woman in 3B who is reliable and reasonable and who has never, in eleven years, been the source of a noise complaint, a dispute, or any reason for the building management to learn my name in a context other than rent.I tell you this not to present myself as a saint.
I am not a saint.
I am a woman who spent eleven years building a reputation for reasonableness and then watched a man with a mug and a dismissive laugh try to spend it down to nothing, one tea bag at a time.
This is the story of what I did about it.
He moved into 4B fourteen months ago.
