There were these neighbors I had just before I moved last winter. I didn't like them. They were loud. They smoked. I didn't like it when people like that came around the apartments. I was terrified one night when I heard ten or twenty of them out there, all screaming and arguing outside our doors at 3AM about some girl. "I hope she's worth it guys," I thought. "I hope it's worth you scaring the shit out of me and wasting your lives on arguments like this when you could be at home sleeping. You should be like me. Where there is no one else, there can be no arguments. No hassle. No pain, at least not the kind you feel. But I wish you did, because then you'd all shut up and go home."

I'm glad I don't live there anymore. And I don't own 'Daria'.

Ω

The Man Next Door

Part I

Amanda Lane stood back with her arms crossed and glowered at her latest painting, as though she could frighten it into coming out like she wanted.
It was worth a try, she thought. Nothing else had worked so far. Try as she might to match it to the image in her mind, it was all going wrong. The lines were too thick, stark and unfriendly. They stood out against the lighter colors, which were too dark; it was as if she'd mixed black into all her paints. Hell, maybe she had.
Truth be told, all of her designs were coming out like this. Every one frustrated her, from pottery to portraits. Too dark, too much contrast, mistakes everywhere. The projects she did on the moors of Scotland, the African savannah, the California coast-those had all been fine. Excellent, even. Maybe that was it. Maybe she'd been on so many vacations, one after another, that all her inspiration was scattered across the globe and couldn't be summoned back. But no.
That wasn't it, she thought darkly as a car door slammed outside. It was her lack of concentration. That explained her sloppy work ever since she came back home with Trent and Jane. A lack of concentration caused by the man next door.
She glanced at the digital clock with the numbers that changed color every hour. It was one of her most practical ideas and made her quite a bit of money, but Vincent had to build them. It said 12:27 AM.
I thought so. He always comes in this late.
Amanda braced herself for bad vibes. There was always a commotion when this particular man came home.
She pulled her chair up to the window and peeked out. She didn't know the man's name, hadn't even got a good look at him yet. She never saw him in daylight, only when he came stumbling home in the wee hours. He fumbled around for something in his jeans and sweatshirt. They were very loose and covered him almost completely. He had probably moved up here from the south and wasn't used to the cooler temperatures.
He failed to find whatever he was looking for-his key, most likely-and pounded on the door. Long minutes later, it finally opened and then the yelling started. Ugly words scrolled across the back of Amanda's mind. She found that she could predict almost exactly what these people would say.
Get your hand off my door.
"Take your goddamn hand off my door!"
Close. It's my door bitch, and I'll knock on it as much as I want.
"It's my fucking door bitch, I pound on it all I want!"
Amanda always forgot the 'fucking' part. She didn't like that word. She didn't like the man, either.
The fight quickly escalated and she lost track of what was happening. It was a blur of arguments, stomping, throwing things, and more arguments that seemed to go on forever. She shut the window and lay down, putting the pillow firmly over her head. The noises didn't go away. They echoed on in her mind until she thought she would go crazy.
She wasn't getting much sleep these days.

"Mom?"
Amanda looked up from her morning coffee. Her daughter Jane had her running shoes on and was halfway out the door, leaning in to tell her something.
"Um, Daria's coming over a little later so I can show her my new project, okay?"
Her mother stared back in surprise. That was it? "Oh. Okay. That's nice, dear. I'm sure she'll like it."
Jane waved and closed the door behind her.
She's telling me things like that now. Little things. She never used to.
It was a good sign. Amanda had promised her-no more missing PTA meetings in Nova Scotia, no more Christmases at Angkor Wat. From now on she would try to be a normal parent, or failing that, a parent who was there. Little by little, Jane was responding. Trent took longer to get used to it, but she got the message across loud and clear that night when he was practicing too late with his band.
"Whoa," he told her afterwards. "I didn't know you could, like, yell and stuff."
Neither did Amanda. She must have picked it up from the neighbors.

She was determined to spend this evening in peace. By 11 Amanda was huddled in the basement instead of up in the bedroom, working at her potter's wheel with Jimi Hendrix blaring from the boom box.
There was a window near the ceiling, just above ground level. If she wanted to, she could look through it and see part of the neighbors' front walk. But she would not.
Her hands kept slipping and messing up the piece. Never fight the clay, her mother had taught her. Let it take the shape it desires. But she was doing just that.
Amanda leaned back from the wheel and threw a disconsolate glance around the basement.
She saw a blur passing by the window.
No! Why did I look? Why?
Slowly, as if against her own will, she stepped up to the glass. She had to see.
Even from here the man's voice was still audible. That strange, upsetting man next door. Who was he? Why did he come home so late? Why didn't she ever see him leave in the morning? Why did the noise only start when he was there?
She should ask Trent and Jane, she thought. They were still here when he moved in. Maybe they would know.

"Maybe you could talk to your mother about this," Amanda said gently.
Daria looked doubtful as she watched the ice melt in her lemonade. "You don't know my mother, Mrs. Lane. Even when she's home, she's not available."
Amanda stared off into space. Were all parents as bad at their jobs as her now? The thought did not reassure her. Jane's friend was a good person, but guarded and suspicious. She didn't trust her goodness to the world. Most neglected people were that way.
"Well, Jane's about to show me her most violent painting yet. And you know how I love a good disemboweling scene in angled strokes." Daria said as she stood up from the table.
Amanda watched her disappear up the stairs with a twinge of sadness.
She never thought of that man when Daria was around. But as soon as she left, he was back.

You just get the hell out of here and bother your baby mama.
"You just get the hell outta here and bother your baby mama!"
She was word perfect that time.
If I wanted to be there I'd be there. Let me in my... She sighed. ...Effing house.
"If I wanna be there I be there! Now let me in the fucking house! It's my fucking house!"
She was profoundly confused by these people. Why couldn't they stop talking? Hadn't they ever spent a quiet day together? Was this their idea of a relationship, egging each other on so the whole block could hear them? Or maybe love was never a part of it.
There was the sound of a window breaking.
She gasped and picked up the phone to call the police. It wouldn't fix anything, though. They would come and investigate, then they would leave and the fighting would start again the next night. Sometimes the same night.
I've got to get away from here, she thought.

"You're looking kind of tired, Mom," Trent said.
She stood up on the chair and searched for the right pot for spaghetti in the kitchen cupboard. It would have to be cleaned first, of course. Some of these old utensils hadn't been used in years.
"I know, honey," she said lightly. "It's just those noisy neighbors of ours. Don't you ever hear them at night?"
"Nope. I'm always practicing at Jesse's. You didn't want us to do it here anymore, remember?"
Something moved in the corner of her eye. It was the man's front door closing, visible through the kitchen window-and a figure walking out.
Amanda dropped the pot and let it bang against the wall. She moved quickly to the window, trying to see him before he got in his car. She failed; the car was gone. How did he leave so quickly?
"There he was! Right there. Did you see him?" she turned around, both excited and deeply frightened. "Trent?" He had already left the room.
Jane never got to see them, either. Amanda wanted them to watch upstairs with her.

Trent wasn't in that night, however, and Jane never came home from school. She'd probably met a boy. Amanda wished she would call home. She didn't care about that sort of thing before, but now they were a real family, or at least getting there. Vincent still had to come back from Mexico. Maybe he ran into Penny down there and they were doing business together. It sounded like the kind of thing he would do on a lark.
But she wanted him here. She wanted Vincent here and her daughter to call and the man next door to move out.
She had no peace from him. He kept her up day and night, even when he wasn't there. His existence haunted her. How old was he? Where was his mother now? Did she know he was living this way?
Maybe Lawndale just wasn't right for them anymore. She wanted to take her family and find a quiet place. This house was getting old and rundown, anyway. But that meant taking Jane away from her best friend. She didn't want that for her daughter-or herself, Amanda realized. She did not want to leave Daria, either. And maybe not even moving would be a solution. Maybe she would hear their voices forever, no matter where she went.
As the clock approached midnight, a car door slammed outside.
Amanda burst into tears.