Oh, My Past Neighbors, I am Heartily Sorry for Having Offended Thee

It's not that I don't remember my partying days, it's just that, from the ever-deteriorating vantage point of the other side of 37, my whole take on the matter of partying and neighborhood relations is, let's say, Differently-Abled.

We have a beautiful, old, much-mortgaged house in a friendly, blue-collared, laid-back St Paul neighborhood. Unfortunately, our financing options limited our choices to houses that were either in a perpetual state of disrepair, on the "wrong side of the tracks," or in That Other City Where You are More Likely to Get Your Head Blown Off. We chose the wrong side of the tracks, which is just right for us. We love our neighborhood and will never move. Unless of course, we find something bigger and better for less money and can take our neighbors with us.

Along with the well-behaved children who know that the neighborhood parents talk to each other and have to be in well before the street lights come on, a great library, and a nice park, we are surrounded by the Trifecta of St Thomas party houses.

It's so nice for the students. They can park their BMWs, Volvo XC-90s, Audis and Durangos in front of our house, go to College House in the middle of the block to warm things up to a drunken level, and then walk either East or West to their next wop-soaked destination, conveniently despositing their beer bottles, keg cups, and yes, multi-colored vomit in the nearest available yard.

At first I tried talking to them.

Me: Hey--it got a little loud last night, do you think you guys could try to keep it down a little?

Josh the Ex-College Student-Turned Home-Owner/Rental Entrepeneur Thanks to Daddy's Money: Oh Yeah, sorry about that.

Me: We don't care if you guys party, we just don't want to hear it.

JTECSTHORETDM: Yeah. Sorry about that.

Then, after a 4-am group beating of a helpless victim on the front sidewalk (which, the next morning I realized was indeed JTECSTHORETDM, confirming my suspicions that the guy probably deserved it), I tried lecturing them.

Me, at 7:30 a.m.: Pound Pound Pound.

Falling apart and clearly going to hurt all day person who answered the door: Yeah?

Me: Mornin! Where's Josh the landlord?

Falling Apart: Uhhh...does anyone know someone named Josh?

Amid a see of couch cushions, four-legged blanket-burritos, and a pea-soup-like fog of beer breath, a head lolls upward and says, "I'm Josh." To which I wittily reply, "Uh, no you're not. I want to talk to Josh."

Several clearly uncomfortable minutes later, after much murmuring upstairs, an "Uh, I dunno, some lady," and a couple of, "You go, No you go"s, I get an, "Uh, there's no one here by that name." So I say, with all of the coolness I can muster," Do you guys know what your neighbor does every day?

Blank stares.

"She gets up and goes to chemotherapy to deal with her breast cancer, then she goes to work, then she comes home to take care of her two-year old so her husband can go to work second shift to pay for the chemo." All true.

Blank stares, although I think I saw one of the way-too-cute girls get emotional.

Me: Her two-year old was up at four last night watching your buddies beat that guy senseless. Totally, shamelessly, untrue.

Blank stares, and an, "Oh yeah, that was Josh."

Again with the we-don't-care-if-you-party routine followed by several minutes of another clearly uncomfortable silence during which I tried to look as cool and understanding, yet tough, as possible.

Me: Okay, then. Have a good day.

We've tried calling the police, then looking out the crack in the window curtain to see them chase young partiers down the street to give them consumption tickets, but only saw some kind-hearted hand-shaking going on, after which the partying resumed.

We have even tried working with the St Thomas Neighborhood Relations guy, who to his credit met with the current students and landlord and reported back to us a roomful of blank stares and a hopeful vision of future quiet nights. They had a party two days later.

Then I summoned all the passive-aggression I could muster and sent an email to our city counselor who was running for Judge:

To Whom it May Concern I know we are just a family trying to sleep at night blah blah blah maybe you could take some time during this election season to help us blah blah blah.

Instant response. Must have been the just a family trying to sleep thing. They sent the fire inspector over who found 26 violations and called me to tell me if there were any other problems, to be sure to let him know. Ordered the illegal bedroom removed. Sent the football-playing boys before the disciplinary committee at St Thomas, where I am sure there was more good-natured hand shaking, told us to call the cops next time we heard anything remotely party-ish going on. Gave us JTECSTHORETDM's cell and home number and encouraged us to wake him whenever we were woken. An opportunity for conflict which made my heart leap with joy.

They were quiet. Beautiful silence every night, punctuated only by my two-month old's ongoing wailing as I maliciously and not-so-politically-correctly let her "cry it out."

Then another party. We called the cops. It was still election stumping time. The cops came. Blocked off both ends of our street. The Beautiful People ran like hell. My heart pounded with the excitement as I peeked through the crack in the curtain thinking no one could see me. This is what I remember a party being like. I put in my running time, you little freaks, and if I have anything to say about it, you will too.

Oh my past neighbors, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee.

I am sorry for singing Violent Femme's songs at two in the morning in the attic of a small duplex with three of my friends. And an amp.

I am sorry that my friend hid in your doghouse when the cops came to that one party and chased us down the street.

I am sorry for having passed out in your snowbank.

And for dragging my phone onto the porch and calling all my friends at 7 in the morning to tell them that when you are on LSD, lemon-beer is the cure.

For playing Wild Cherry as loud as that funky music could be played. Every night for probably a year.

For dragging my friends into the bathroom to show them my party trick and giggling loudly right up through the plumbing to your bedroom for hours.

For that one dude who puked up a whole McDonald's pickle on our deck after doing a Jack Daniels beer-bong. (Although that was pretty cool.)

I understand and am doing my penance. Every Thursday-Saturday. And whenever else there is dollar beer.