I had the worst neighbors in the apartment complex for a few months in Charlotte. They were of college student age and acted like they had just moved out of their parent’s house as if their parents were demons of chaos and destruction from a hell house.
The duo showed up a few weeks after the previous neighbors moved out, which was a shame because they never bothered me. I came home one day to a moving truck parked in my second parking spot. The first time I saw them, they were unloading an oversized couch. They ignored my hello, which slightly annoyed me, but I didn’t overthink it because moving is terrible.
Grief, they were freaking awful for the first few months after their arrival that day.
A short list of their horrific and inconsiderate actions included having their friends park in my parking space when over. We were assigned two parking spaces, and I couldn’t park in the middle of mine when this happened. They ran a vacuum cleaner in the middle of the night when I was trying to sleep. They partied most nights of the week. I had never had any issues with people blowing off some steam and drinking some alcohol. I love my beer, but I never wanted to smell the party through my apartment walls, if you get my drift of this whiff.
The most loathsome thing they did was play music loudly at deafening levels that the bass must’ve remained in the red. They must’ve had a stack of speakers pointed toward our shared apartment walls. Those walls shook from all the bass. The rattling was very inconsistent. How they never brew a speaker is beyond me. I never knew when it was going to start or end. The only periods of silence were when their silver Mustang and green Jeep were away because that meant no one was home to blast some rap and alternative music. It seemed like they were always coming and going. Some were short, quick trips, like just long enough to go to the grocery store for a frozen pizza.
I liked some of the music they played, but their behavior made me temporarily dislike it. This adjacent misconduct needed to end, so I tried the indirect approach first. For example, I reported their noise to the property management company several times, but they told me they couldn’t do anything during the day and to call the cops after 10 p.m. I didn’t want to involve the law, so I knew it was up to moi to resolve their discourteousness.
I was at The Elf with Claudio and Panora, feeling slightly irritated about what the property management company told me. Claudio asked me if I wanted him to pay them a visit on my behalf. He said he could rip their door off the hinges, walk into their apartment, and then out with their sound system. As funny as that would’ve been, I told the half-god that wasn’t necessary.
I did this instead, which wasn’t much. I stuffed all the apartment mailboxes with an anonymous memo about Charlotte’s noise ordinance, but it did no good. I talked to the girl living on the other side of them to get her pulse on our shared loud and lousy neighbor, but she didn’t even know what I was talking about. She told me she stayed at her fiance’s place most of the time. I was alone in this misery.
Then, the next night, I had it. My limit to their noise pollution was approximately two months. I was tired of my rumbling walls. It was time for me to knock on their door.
Before I knocked on their dark red apartment door, I paused to listen to the music coming from inside. It was dreadful. I didn’t recognize it. Usually, I was familiar with what they played. I used the door knocker multiple times and banged my fist so they could come to the door. Someone turned the music volume down before the door opened.
Standing before me was half the reason I knocked on the door—the one who drove the silver Mustang. He was shorter than his roommate and wore an oversized green University of North Carolina at Charlotte hooded sweatshirt. I knew they were college students. He didn’t appear that threatening close-up, but then again, he didn’t from a distance either, which was good because I didn’t know how this conversation would play out.
I introduced myself as his next-door neighbor and asked him if he could keep the music down as politely as I knew how. There was a pause. He scratched his patchy bearded face. I thought he was about to be an ass. I remember thinking that it was about to go sideways and that I wished Claudio and Panora were with me.
But he wasn’t a jerk at all. He was quite the opposite. Giving me an apology and saying they would keep the noise down. It went better than I could’ve imagined. Afterward, they played their music at a respectable level and not during the night. It was nice. Then, two strange things happened that I never thought would happen to me in a million years.
Strangely, I went from hating them to becoming friendly with them. Over the next few months, I went over there sometimes to drink beer and rap. Yep, that’s right. I recorded a rap song with them. I don’t remember how that happened. The music that they made wasn’t outstanding. I had never been around anyone who made beats and rapped over them before. They said they did song production, but I would say they barely did that. The song I heard the day I knocked on their door was one of their original tracks. And remember, I described that one as dreadful. I wish I could listen to that sound again.
They had matching tattoos on their forearms that said “The Legends” in old English fonts. That’s what they called themselves: The Legends. My neighbor who drove the Mustang called himself Tom Bomb, and the Green Jeep driver called himself Blitzen. Not the best names, but whatever.
There were a few drunk weekend nights when I got a front-row seat to their music-creating process. They first created their beat in a pirated version of Fruity Loops and then recorded their vocals using some audio recording software made by Sony. I am trying to remember the name of the multi-track software. I enjoyed these nights with The Legends, but in small doses. It was a different activity type I had never been around before.
My rapping went down one of those weekend nights; The Legends ended up at The Elf. My neighbors had been at some college keg party and decided to drop in for a beer before going home. Tom Bomb (I feel foolish writing that) walked over to the pool tables where I was and handed me a bottle of beer. Then Blitzen joined us with a round of tequila shots for each of us. I curiously thanked them. I wasn’t that type of friend with them. You know, the type of friends who would buy beer and shots for each other.
I realized the beer and tequila were their way of asking for permission instead of forgiveness to work on their music after the bar. It was super late, and they were trying to be mindful. Of course, I told them. Thirty minutes later, I found myself inside The Legends apartment, about to record a rap for the first and last time. I barely remember how it all played out. The liquor must’ve hit me on the walk home. Liquor always pushed me past the limit, as their loud music did during those first few months when I called them neighbors. I do remember they were excited about it. Why, I don’t know. They played some of their beats that I could “jump” on, but none resonated with me. I chose an instrumental Wu-tang Clan beat to rap over. I believe it was Triumph from the Wu-tang Forever album. I was standing in front of their microphone with headphones on. Blitzen hit record. The instrumental started playing, and I recorded these lyrics:
I jumped on the track and lapped the competition.
Part lion, part eagle, I’m a lyrical griffin.
Is it so wrong to hit you with such a bee swarm,
Bang your head; there’s no calm before this storm.
This ain’t no college track and field because my javelin kills,
Serving up some turkey like a Thanksgiving meal.
My next gig is the new herald of Galactus.
I am stacking and kicking it in a higher status.
You can’t fake being dope inside all this rap rage.
If you’re not doing it, you better stay in the cage.
If your flow smells bad, spray some cologne.
We’re delivering the jazz like Utah’s Karl Malone.
I’m the next rap goliath riding on the high horse’s back.
Call me Mark Morrison because this is the return of the Mack.
Please don’t judge the quality of my rap, which took me a beer and a half to write. I still don’t know if those lines are good or not. This memoir is the first time I’ve aired them since recording with The Legends.
Alright, so all that to get to the supernatural bit. That’s the point of this memoir. I’m publishing this to share my supernatural interactions and relationships with the world.
I followed Blitzen one night from the grocery store. I was heading to The Elf to see if he wanted to join me for food. His Jeep led me to a storage unit facility down the street. He was meeting someone there. They got out of their vehicles and high-fived each other. They didn’t notice I drove by them because they were inside the unit. The garage door was wide open, and what I saw inside, or maybe what I thought I saw inside, pissed me off.
What I saw needed to be verified, so I went back to the storage unit with Claudio this time. This impromptu mission needed a demi-god if it went sideways. He broke the silver lock and threw up the garage door. I knew the storage unit would be pitch black, so I brought a flashlight. I turned it on and lit up the corner.
“Holy crap is that what I think it is,” asked Claudio, but he used worse language.
I told him, “Yep, that’s a vampire.” Claudio had never seen a vampire before. I probably wouldn’t have either if I hadn’t befriended Vincent Ortega. The demi-god was intrigued. He moved closer to the vampire and into the light beam coming from my flashlight. I was watching closely. We both jumped when the vampire opened her eyes. Then brave Claudio ran behind me. I felt terrible for giggling.
The vampire was alive, wrapped in a lot of silver. Silver is a weakness of vampires. It weakens vampires like Kryptonite does Superman. She looked so pale and weak. I had seen enough. This sight made me furious and confirmed my suspicion. It appeared The Legends were dealing vampire blood. Vincent told me about this. Vampire blood gives humans a euphoric experience. I had to close down their shop.
Claudio removed all the silver and carried the vampire to my Accord. We drove straight to The Elf. I needed to find Vincent. Please be there, I looped in my head. I saw him sitting at the bar. Claudio and I told him about the frail vampire in my car. Then he became enraged. My vampire friend wanted to know who was responsible. I tried to tell him but withheld that because I knew he would kill The Legends. He agreed to let Claudio and me take care of it. He disappeared with the female vampire into the night.
The Legends were afraid and anxious when we told them two vampires were looking for them. Claudio got to smash their sound system after all. They quickly moved out the next day. That was the last time I ever saw Tom Bomb and Blitzen. Good riddance to those knobs.
I still have a CD copy of the rap I recorded before the vampire discovery. One wrote “The Natty Neighbor Feature” on the shiny disc in black magic marker. The song is quite terrible. I hated how my voice sounded—drunk and off-rhythm. I break it out every once in a while. Like last week, I needed to transcribe the lyrics for this story. That rubbish needs to stay tucked away in its secret hiding spot.
If you’re wondering about the vampire Claudio and I saved that night, she survived. She is Isabelle, and she moved in with me after we fell in love.
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