A Story About My Neighbor
6 min read
It’s 1:33 am right now, and I cannot go to sleep until I finish this article. To be perfectly honest this is one of those articles I don’t know how to write, but I’ll try. I’ll try because I think it’s important.
It all started with a fridge that my landlord put in the hall of the house — the place where I rent a small apartment in.
“Somebody moved?” I thought. Either somebody moved out or the fridge is broken, I didn’t know.
Later I found out that the fridge is from Steve’s room — my next door neighbor. I wondered what happened, but every time I came home from work I passed that old fridge and just shook my shoulders “huh, maybe he moved out”. I didn’t get to talk to other neighbors to find out what happened, it didn’t seem to me of major importance. I just moved on with my life.
A week later my rent was due. So like usual I called my Portuguese landlord, Germano, so I could meet him and pay the rent. On my way out, I passed the fridge again, this time noticing the rust on its corners and the gluey yellow dirt that accumulated on its door. “What a useless-looking piece of junk. How the hell was it still working?” I said to myself.
I met Germano in the basement, and as he was writing the receipt I asked him, “So…what happened to Steve? I saw you moved the fridge outside”
He stopped writing, frowning his eyebrows and taking a long sigh.
“Steve is…dead.”
It cut my breath for a second. I didn’t know how to…react.
“Wait… what?”
We both stayed silent for a while.
“How and when?”
“Steve had liver cancer, he died a few days ago.”
“I…I had no idea”
“I didn’t know he had cancer either, I only found out a few days before he died, when he was in the hospital. He felt really bad and lost weight so I took him to the hospital. Then he told me he had terminal cancer”
I stayed silent, listening to him.
“He knew about it for months but never really told anyone. Well, except Scott.”
“Scott from 201?”
“Yeah. He was the only one who knew. And maybe Steve’s family too. His kids, but I’m not sure.”
“Man that’s…really sad…fuck”
Germano nodded, looking down.
“You said liver cancer?”
“Yeah. Steve used to drink a lot and-“
“I know I know. But he never bothered me, he was always nice, just…he was into himself”
“Yeah he was. Nice guy”
“Good neighbor”
“Mhm”
“I talked to him sometimes and he even helped me a few times with some small stuff. He was a really good neighbor”
We both stood there not knowing what to say. We both knew Steve, but at the same time we didn’t really know him. We were never close to him. But he died and we needed to say something. But we couldn’t say much.
I remember the first few days when I moved in, room 205. The first man I met after my landlord was one in his late 50’s, with a bulky body and a bit of a belly, and a slightly slouched back, always looking down. When I engaged him in a discussion he would sometimes look up into my eyes for a second. He had those guilty looking yet warm eyes, like of an old friendly dog that went through shit. He had that “I never bother you and you never bother me” attitude. Not in an old grumpy man way, more like in a secluded, introverted, isolated way.
On one of our longer discussions we talked a bit about our lives. I told him where I immigrated from, he said “oh, I never heard of that country” and smiled, I smiled too and went on explaining more. He smiled rarely but whenever he did he meant it, he couldn’t fake it — he didn’t seem like that kind of guy.
He told me he had two daughters and a son, and that they have good jobs and live here in the city of Toronto. I didn’t want to get him uncomfortable so I never asked why he lives here alone. I never asked about his wife. I didn’t judge, I just listened. He told me a few things about his life in the 80’s and his passion for music, but never really got into great detail. I did manage to crack him up a few times and hear a laugh from him, I don’t remember what I said though, and it doesn’t really matter.
On other days, our chats were usually shorter, and eventually they just faded into a typical neighbor relationship, the one where you talk about the weather and just say hi to each other here and there. We never really talked much after that long initial discussion. He was in the room 206, right beside me.
Sometimes in the evening he’d get drunk and listen to music. He wasn’t an aggressive drunk though. Both I and Germano noted that. He was always into himself, he never bothered anyone.
He had some really good taste in music though, goddamn. I’d regularly hear some Led Zeppelin and The Doors, especially their “Riders On The Storm” and other 70’s and 80’s rock bands. Sometimes he’d listen to Eminem’s “Stan” and sing along the lyrics. It was funny, he sang it in this drunk but very warm voice, never raising it too much so he wouldn’t bother me. He was always aware of that, even when he had his little fun, he never bothered me. Fuck, I even sang along a few times, but I never really talked to him about it.
He seemed lonely to me, now that I think about it. He’d often sit in the chair in front of the house, smoking and just being there. He was really lonely. Sometimes he’d start a chat, obviously about the weather (ah Canadians), and I would have a back-and-forth with him, but never really got deep into it. I think the little enthusiasm for discussion that he had slowly faded with time. Sometimes I’d try to mention something random when I saw him on that chair, but he held his head down and mumbled a few words, so I moved on, thinking I shouldn’t bother him.
Months and months passed like that, until one day, second day, third day, fourth day, I hear no sound in room 206.
Another day, the fridge in the hall. Room 206, silence.
Today I saw his family come to take his stuff out. His two daughters, an older son, and an old woman. His wife? Maybe.
I just nodded when my eyes met their eyes and moved on with my life.
As I’m writing this down, his furniture, his ironing table, his boxes with clothes and shoes are all outside in front of the house. It is 2:42 am, the night is silent. In a few days all that furniture will either be taken by passersby or be thrown in the junk. Room 206 will stay silent for a while, until someone new comes in and rents the space.
Germano mentioned that he’s not sure if the funeral is going to take place, and he asked Steve’s family to tell him if and when it is happening. I haven’t heard from him yet.
In the last few days I’ve passed by the old rusty fridge and by the chair in front of the house a few times — the chair that Steve used to sit in.
I haven’t seen anyone sit in it since he died.
His furniture and all the stuff is still there outside the house. The old rusty fridge is still there in the hall.
But Steve is gone, and I…
I have to move on.
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out on loan
Riders on the storm
— The Doors