For the last month — and for the conceivable next month -- myself and my little family are sequestered back out at the so-called Lamb Cottage out here on Long Island, the same little house we sub-letted last summer, when the pandemic convinced our friends who normally rent it to stay put in their North Carolina home. As fate would have it, that same family demurred from coming up north this summer, too, so they graciously let us sublet it again for July and August, and it’s a true gift for us to be able to do it.
This all said, while this little cottage was a literal safe haven for us last year and an idyllic place for us to undeservedly sojourn this year, it does have its minor drawbacks.
Sandwiched on all sides by other properties, the cottage comes with two specific sets of neighbors — we call them Jersey House and Staten Island House — who each harbor penchants for, shall we say, sharply compromising the idyll.
Closest is Jersey House, a sprawling, fully-air conditioned suburban compound with a lavish backyard pool that is just over a fenced hedge from us. The residents of same are a family of five who keep a strange weekly schedule that flies in the face of the calendar’s conventions. They oddly disappear for days, out of synch with the weekday/weekend continuum. When they are here, however, their kids spend an inordinate amount of time in the pool. There is, of course, nothing wrong with that. Had we our own pool, we’d probably do the same.
By the same token, the Jersey House kids conduct themselves in the pool in a manner that is best described as … well … feral. Now, don’t get me wrong — obviously, children frolicking in swimming pools is very literally the sound of summertime. When my own kids were little, they giggled their heads off whilst playing in my mother’s pool. But these kids are just … different. They are MANIC, and sound like they are in dire need of some weapons-grade dosages of Ritalin. They scream, rant, rage, moan and bellow in a manner that gives me concern, and I don’t even like these children. Never mind the fact that they irritate the bejesus out of us, I can’t fathom how their own parents stand it. There is no calm. There is no peace. When they play “Marco Polo,” — and they are ALWAYS PLAYING “MARCO POLO,” a strange, maddening constant, given the mind-numbing idiocy of the game — they scream as if their next meal singularly depends on winning.
Last year, we politely asked, on a few awkward occasions, if they could try to keep all the bug-eyed, vein-popping screaming to a minimum. By the end of that summer, we were brazenly yelling “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, CALM THE HELL DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP” out our bedroom window (the one that faces their pool). Nothing ever changed.
Across the narrow driveway on the other side, meanwhile, is Staten Island House. That’s a whole `nother story.
A massive, multi-bedroomed stronghold with multiple cars coming and going and yet another sprawling backyard pool set-up, Staten Island House plays host to a horde of folks from, we assume, Staten Island, who dependably like to regularly juxtapose the otherwise sleepy tranquility of the surrounding environs (Jersey House notwithstanding) with their pronounced affinity for high-decibel partying. Again, situated as they are between a cluster of other houses, to say nothing of the police station just a block away, the residents of Staten Island House suffer from what my wife calls a dearth of “situational awareness.” I find that diagnosis a little charitable, sooner suggesting that they proudly exude a palpable case of “pugnacious situational indifference.” Routinely opting for rafter-shaking airings from the discographies of Billy Squier, Pat Benatar and Rupert Hine (man oh man, do they love “Escape [The Pina Colada Song]”) in a manner suggesting that 1981 never ended, the S.I. House practically dares me to come complain. Thus far, I have demurred from that option.
Last summer, there was a moment when I was working away at my laptop in the living room, when I heard a group of people walking up the cottage’s long, gravel driveway. I looked out the screen door to see a phalanx of angry-looking women in lycra activewear standing outside in a sort of attack formation. “Can I help you?,” I asked. The leader, a tough-talking lady brandishing a metal water bottle somewhat menacingly, spoke up. “Hey there, Paul, why did you call the cops on us last night?” “Well,” I calmly replied, “for a start, my name isn’t Paul, and we didn’t call the cops on anyone last night or ever. We’re not really ‘call-the-cops’ types, here.” She didn’t seem to buy it and went on to assert that they were just blowing off steam and having a party with some of their friends after a long work week (seemingly oblivious to the fact that the party in question happened on a Monday night). I re-iterated that we hadn’t called the police on them, which was true. Being that we’re ultimately only guests of our friends here, we don’t really feel its our place to alert the local constabulary of any noise disturbance (despite the fact that I’m dead sure the police station a block away could easily hear Staten Island House’s stentorian spins of “Love Is A Battlefield” the evening prior). Bear in mind, these ladies didn’t come down our driveway with a conciliatory bottle of wine to offer — just grimaces and lycra. They took off back down our driveway, and that was our last interaction. But the late-night arena-rock blocks have continued unabated.
Once again, we’re inclined to just grin and bear it, as the benefits of spending time here at the cottage vastly outweigh the drawbacks. If that means dealing with the bloodcurdling screams of Jersey House’s pool and the foundation-quaking renditions of “The Stroke” from Staten Island House, so be it.
Earlier this week, however, I had to repair back to the city. After the remains of a botched root canal in the back of my mouth finally saw fit to dislodge themselves from my skull two weeks back, I figured it was high time to go see my dentist again. I made an appointment for early Tuesday morning, and, in short order, I found myself back in our apartment in the city, late Monday night, without my wife and kids and bored.
Left to my own devices, I ended up drinking a tallboy (or two) of Asahi while re-watching “The New York Post-Punk Noise Series Vol. 1” DVD, which features — wait for it — Cop Shoot Cop performing live at Martin Bisi’s studio in 1993. Without my wife there to helpfully remind (read: scold) me about the perils of volume, I ended up particularly reveling in this vintage slice of clangy noise rock. Evidently, I was enjoying it with a little too much abandon, as halfway through a pointedly caustic rendition of “Shine On Elizabeth,” I heard an emphatic pounding on my front door.
Shaken and shocked to my senses, I muted the television and sprang to the door. I was greeted by Ben, my gentle giant of a downstairs neighbor who could easily collapse my pipe-cleaner-like ribcage with a single poke to my sternum. He’d been dispatched with all haste upstairs by his seething wife to ask me to turn it the Hell down, half-expecting to have encountered one of my teenaged kids as the culprit. Essentially, imagine hearing this coming through your ceiling at top volume. I apologized profusely and trotted out some half-assed excuse that held no water and made absolutely no sense whatsoever. Exceptionally good dude that he is, Ben graciously accepted my drivel, thanked me and split to go soothe the nerves of his hysterical spouse. I spent the rest of the evening on my tip-toes feeling like a first-class jackass.
I am a filthy hypocrite.
The takeaway, here, is whether you’re a city mouse or an ersatz country mouse, never lose touch with your situational awareness.
Recent Comments