I know the guy upstairs next to GFI in Furley’s old apartment.  We call him Slick. Then there’s The Lawyer next to him. Downstairs from him is Granola Guy and between the two of us lives a really cool nurse. I have no name for her other than her first name, so for the purposes of this blog, we’ll just call her Nurse New York.  In the building next to us is Crazy Pajama Bird Man.  He’s got parrots, a poor relationship with his baby mama and can often be found outside in too-big socks and ratty pajama bottoms using a cherry-picker to trim the trees.  And finally, also in the building next door, we have The Patio Lesbians.  Man, those women sure love their patio.

I figured I’d gotten to know enough of the characters for a while, but that was before the man next door to The English Couple got a Harley for Christmas.

Let me just say that I have no real problem with motorcycles in general.  I also have no problem with occasional disturbances of the peace — these things happen.  But for the love of god, if you’re going to go somewhere, then freaking go.

A few days after Christmas, I heard a motorcycle start up across the street.  It revved a few times, like one does when warming up a vehicle and then I full anticipated that I would hear it speed down the block.  But, instead, it puttered and puttered and idled and puttered and idled and sputtered and OMG WOULD YOU SHUT THAT DAMN THING OFF!!?!?  After a bit, I was able to tune it out and keep doing what I was doing and almost forgot about it.

I noticed later on that I was getting a headache.  I decided to lie down on the couch and watch TV for a bit, but I couldn’t hear the TV without cranking it up, which wasn’t helpful.  Hours later, this man was still idling his motorcycle in the driveway. Now, I don’t do well with constant low-grade hums or rings or tones, they drive me insane and give me headaches. Some people can successfully tune them out, but I often get a physical reaction.  This wasn’t quite “low-grade”, but that incessant sputtering and revving was driving me absolutely mad and not helping my headache.

I decided I’d had enough.  For chrissake, it was a beautiful, quiet peaceful Thursday morning during a holiday week.  This isn’t a weekday when people are at work (though, I’d have words for him then, too).  I ran out to the curb in my tropical pajama pants, sweatshirt and slippers and politely called across the street, “Excuse me!  Sir?  Do you think you could turn that off for a sec?”

Of course, all I got was “WHAT?” My point exactly, jerk. So I made a few gestures and eventually, he walked over to the edge of his curb so that we’re hollering across the street to each other over the din of his bike. I called out again, “Sir, are you planning on going anywhere?”

Now, I should tell you — this was no Hell’s Angel or thug (though I’ve know a couple really sweet Hell’s Angels). I live in a nice area (I lucked out), so this guy was more like someone’s golf buddy than a biker dude.  He had on pressed jeans, super white sneakers, a polo shirt and a visor… like he was going to play tennis followed by a Manhattan at the country club. His “hog”, while a Harley, was one of those big white luxury deals with the wide-load storage boxes on the sides, room for 4 and lots of bling. It was like Harley Davidson, The Eddie Bauer Edition.  If bikes were Business Class, that was this man’s motorcycle.

“Um, I bike,” calls the man, giving me that, “Whatever, lady” look.  Great, you “bike”. Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t people who “bike” say “I ride”?  You bike?  Good for you, dude. Get a Schwinn.

As I don’t want angry neighbors, I say really sweetly, “I can see that, but are you going anywhere anytime soon?  Your bike has been idling for several hours and while I understand that you need to run it sometimes, it’s starting to become a little bothersome. If you’re not going anywhere imminently, would you please shut it off while it’s sitting in the driveway?”

He looked at me, rolled his eyes, then dismissed me with a wave of his hand… like a “shoo”, turned his back and walked back to his bike.  Exasperated, I stomped back in the house, and he proceeded to leave it running for another seven minutes.

I thought maybe he was doing some kind of maintenance or repair work on the bike, but when he shooed me, that’s when I noticed that this tool had a chamois in his hand.  A chamois!  No toolbox, no grease under his nails, no wrenches… a chamois.  This wanker was sitting in his driveway, revving his engine and buffing his Harley.  For hours.

Sir, no amount of revving or buffing will make your penis bigger. SHUT IT OFF. 

Eventually, it was shut off. He put the cover back on it and it still sits in his driveway. I thought I heard him leaving the other day, but it was just Slick and his Ducati taking off down the street.  At least he has the decency to not rev his penis in the front yard.  Well… I hope, anyway.