There is this nagging cough that has been with me for months, now, and also the sensation of a small balloon inflating inside the left part of my chest, just above the heart.
I cannot exhale smoothly. When I get to the last instant where I try to push all air out of my lungs, I go into a spurt of coughing.
It is to the point where I go to see a doctor about it. He cannot figure out anything wrong, though.
“We can run tests on you ‘till you turn blue in the face,” he says to me. “But that is going to be very time consuming and expensive. I’m not sure that I would recommend it, but it’s your choice.”
I decide to hold off on all the medical tests and just deal with the cough and sensation. It does not affect me that much. I can still run as fast and hard as I want and do all the things that I am used to doing.
What is causing this problem, though?
My parents think it might have something to do with the apartment where I live. There are strange smells at times that seem to come out of the walls. Dad speculates that a prior tenant could have been cooking up meth in there.
I hope that is not the case. It is a fairly nice apartment, but not luxury. My rent is $545 per month for a two bedroom, one and a half bathroom unit. Most of the tenants are young working people like myself.
Downstairs below me is a unique family. The husband is a short, thin Mexican with a mustache. He is balding on top, but grows his hair out long in the back. Probably only 5’5” or 5’6”, he speaks broken English.
His wife, or at least the woman who lives with him, is a white lady, an American. She must weigh close to 300 pounds. I hardly ever see her. She rarely comes outside their apartment. Both of them are most likely in their late 30s or early 40s.
They have a beautiful little daughter, an olive skinned child with big brown eyes and shiny dark, straight hair. I have a hard time guessing the age of children, but I would say she is three or four years old. She can walk, and she speaks a little.
They are nice people. I only find one thing about the situation that is annoying. The man works construction, and five days a week, unless it is raining, I am awakened in the morning by the sound of his boss man blowing the horn on a diesel pickup. I look out my window and see the dually truck, full of construction workers. The Mexican man comes out of his apartment each day and hustles to climb in. Off they go.
The horn is irritating, but I do not hold it against my neighbor. It probably is not a pleasant sound to him, either. It is a tough job that he has.
In the evenings, I see the Mexican man take his daughter by the hand for strolls outside our apartment complex, checking out the Bradford Pear trees when they are in bloom.
The little girl waves to me whenever she sees me, and I nod to the father. He smiles back at me, very proud. It is obvious that his daughter gives him the most happiness out of anything in his life.
One day, another of our neighbors walks his dog- a big, muscular pit bull. The dog has a sort of spotted pattern that makes it look pretty vicious.
The Mexican has his daughter out for a walk. The pit bull actually stands just as tall as her. And they come face to face. The pit bull strains at the leash, all its muscles flexing, and the owner has to use both hands to hold it back.
The little girl is delighted by this. She laughs and reaches out her hand to try and touch the dog on the nose. The Mexican man smiles, too, oblivious to any danger.
I cannot get a read on this, what the dog is trying to do. I cannot tell if the owner of the dog, a tall skinny white guy in his 20s, is concerned. The dog makes these strange guttural sounds with its mouth closed. It very obviously wants to get at the little girl, but I do not know if it wants to play or attack.
Anyway, the owner manages to pull the dog back, and the Mexican also pulls his girl away and they continue their walks, with the little girl looking back over her shoulder at the dog and smiling.
Sometimes on the weekends, the family downstairs has a lot of people over. It is always other Mexicans. I can hear the brass instrument music coming from the radio and smell the ethnic cooking.
One such weekend, as I am coming down the exterior staircase, the man steps out of his apartment to smoke a cigarette. He sees me.
“Music too loud?” he asks.
“No, you guys are fine,” I respond.
“You are a good neighbor,” he says. “Much better than people before you.”
“Is that so? What were they, big partiers?”
The man lights his cigarette and begins puffing, which is a reason for me to end the conversation and move on as quickly as possible. I do not like cigarette smoke.
The Mexican nods his head. “Yes, very loud. Boom, boom, boom,” he laughs, pointing up. “Also, they do drugs,” he says.
“Really?” I respond.
“Si. I go up to ask them to be quiet. The door was open. I see a brick of cocaine on the table. I come back down.”
“Wow, is that so?”
“But you good. You very good.”
“Thanks,” I respond. “You are good neighbors, too.”
***
Today I decide to come back to my apartment to eat lunch. There is a U-Haul truck parked at the entrance to my apartment.
As I walk past it, I see the 300 pound woman, standing at the back.
“Hello,” I say.
She gives me a quick hello back, but then returns to her task of loading furniture. There are other people helping her. Other white people. The little girl is outside, too.
“You guys are moving out?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” she answers without looking me in the eyes. “We’re just getting rid of some furniture.”
“Huh. Okay,” I respond, and head upstairs to my apartment.
From inside, I watch them through a window. They are moving fast, taking things out of the apartment and literally throwing it on the truck, with no thought to packing the stuff neatly. Chairs, headboards, lamps are piled haphazardly all over the cargo space. I eat my lunch, a leftover carry out plate from Golden Corral Buffet, and then head back out to work.
When I return in the evening, the U-Haul truck is gone.
In the days that follow, I see the Mexican man, but not the woman or their little girl. I learn from talking to him that the woman has taken all the belongings and their daughter and left him. He has no idea where they have gone.
In the weeks that follow, I never see him smiling anymore. Instead, his eyes are bloodshot and dark.
One evening, he is standing outside his door, drinking a beer with another Mexican friend. I nod to them both.
“Hey guys,” I say, and head up the stairs.
I hear the friend of my neighbor say sarcastically in a low tone, “Hey…man.”
Then my Mexican neighbor turns to me and yells in a strained voice, “Hey!”
I stop on the stairs, turn and look at him.
“Are you talking to me?” I ask.
Now, the other guy is nervous and won’t look at me.
“Let it go,” he mutters to my neighbor. “Just let it go.”
I walk back down to them. The Mexican man steps up to me and gets right in my face, his blood-shot eyes even with my nose. I can smell the alcohol coming off him.
“If you have problem with me, tell me,” he says. “Just knock on my door and tell me. You don’t have to go to the office and complain.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask him. “Did someone complain about you?”
Now, I can tell by the look in his eyes that he wants to fight me.
“You complained about the noise, and now they take my apartment from me.”
This really surprises me.
“It wasn’t me that complained. You guys are good neighbors. I’ve never complained.”
“Right,” he says sarcastically.
The situation is only going to escalate if I stay here. I step back.
“You can believe what you want to, man,” I say as I turn and walk up the stairs. “I did not complain to the office about you.”
Both men watch me as I key into my apartment.
As the night goes on, I hear them talking outside in angry tones. Then I hear a bottle get busted against the wall.
After that night, I only see the Mexican man a couple more times. We pass in the hall, him carrying a bag of laundry. The look in his eyes is that he believes me, now. His eyes are sad, but not drunk and angry.
Then he is gone, and new neighbors move into the apartment below me.
I wonder if he ever sees his daughter again. I hope so.
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