There is a nice old lady who lives in the apartment upstairs from me who let a few of her younger relatives stay with her a couple of years ago. They were, by mode of dress and carriage in comparison to others in this neighborhood, out of place, so to speak.
They yelled in hallways to talk to each other. They’d smack their 4–5 year old kid to the ground openly and give people grief for calling them on it. They tried to bribe the doormen to let their druggy pals in without buzzing up. They played booty bass music seemingly all day long and had terrace parties that went on forever. We didn’t dare say anything. They would glare at us in the elevators like they’d cut a bitch if we breathed on them.
Only when one of them burnt their apartment out (crack party gone awry, per the AM doorman who likes to gossip) did someone say anything. We were outside waiting for the fire department to give us the all-clear when a woman from their floor stomped up to the man of the group and hissed, “This is not the projects! You should go back there, where you belong!” I thought that guy was going to bust her face in, he looked so angry. The manager came over to deal with it, and within a week, the entire clan, save the old lady, was gone.
We were lucky. Each apartment here is encased, so we didn’t burn. Plus, the water ran down and seeped into our floors and warped them, so we got new oak parquet flooring gratis. Thanks, crackies!