A Letter to My Neighbors *or* Really? An Air-horn?

To the neighbors on my otherwise quiet, family-centered, tree-lined Brooklyn block,

Wow. Really? An Air-horn?

You know, when I first moved in, I must say I was surprised by the late-night gatherings on your stoop when your chattering and cigarette smoke would waft upward, invading my third-floor bedroom. Every few days I would curse your arrogant youth, your forgiving parents, and my street-facing bedroom.

But after a few months, your horseplay seemed to get a bit predictable. It began to border on trite and stale. Really, how often could you gab, smoke, and race up and down the block on motorcycles? But then, a few weeks ago, you really shook things up with those fireworks. Man, that was a surprise--to be lying in bed, almost asleep and the BANG! BANGBANG! Fireworks! At midnight! On a Thursday!

You had set the bar pretty high for yourselves, but last night you topped it. You pulled out all the stops with that air-horn. 12:30 on a Sunday night just after I had fallen asleep--an air-horn was the last thing I was expecting. But there it was and there you were blaring it--waking up the neighborhood while you apparently didn't have a care in your non-working world. And the way you would blare it, then wait a few minutes before the next outburst, startling us all over again? Genius.

At this point, I'm just wondering what excitment you have planned for the rest of the summer. A curb-side bonfire? A chorus of dogs? A jam session featuring tamborines, harmonicas, and cymbols?

Thanks, neighbors, for reminding me that just because I've left Manhattan, it doesn't mean I'm not still living near insensitive assholes.

xoxo,
Jen