I was disturbed by a new neighbor who lived next door to my apartment. She was a young Japanese woman, perhaps in her late twenties. She lived alone and didn’t seem to have many friends. So as a hobby, she would play the piano. She repetitiously played the same continuous tunes over and over and over again for hours and hours and hours each and every day. She played the piano every weekend from 10:00 a.m. straight through 5:00 p.m. and each weeknight from 6:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. It didn’t seem like she even stopped to go to the bathroom or to eat. Her music was horrible. I felt tortured. I never got a break from listening to this.

I saw my neighbor in the parking lot.

“I need to ask you something,” I said to her.

“Yes.”

“Is it possible that you can end your piano playing by 9:00 p.m. on weeknights? I do need some quiet time so I can relax before I get ready to go to bed before work in the morning.”

“I’m sorry. I love to play, and I don’t watch the time. When I am into my playing, the time has no meaning.”

“Well, I think 9:00 p.m. is reasonable. Can you wind it down by then?”

“I don’t watch the clock. I play until I am done.”

Fine, with that attitude, now we are at war. I went to complain to the property management. I wrote them a letter and quoted from my lease, “Tenants shall not play upon any musical instrument or operate a phonograph or a radio or television loudspeaker in the premises in such manner as may disturb or bother other occupants of the buildings.”

But they couldn’t do anything for me either. They wrote my neighbor a letter advising her not to play her music past 9:00 p.m. But without enforcement or perhaps a threat of eviction, she continued to do what she wanted. I had the misfortune of living directly next door to her. No one lived below her and no apartment was above her, so no one else complained. I had to suffer alone. I was beginning to hate her. And then when she began her bad opera singing in addition to her bad piano playing, I started fantasizing about her death. I hoped that someone could break into the apartment and murder her.

For a short time, I thought that I might have my wish for my neighbor’s murder when a disturbed young man moved across the hall with schizophrenia. Peter who did not like to take his medication would pace in the hallway for hours, tracing his steps back and forth with quick rhythm. It was frightening to watch. Occasionally he would break his pattern only to walk down the stairs to have a smoke. The stale smell would linger in the air. After moments, he would return back to the hallway, pacing. Usually this was late at night. It was difficult for me to relax knowing Peter was out in the hallway, his mind racing and his feet treading in their constant path. I tried to shut him out, concentrating on e-mails I composed to my friends. But just knowing he was out there, I would take constant glimpses out of the peephole in my front door, hoping that his mind would calm his feet and back into his apartment he would disappear.

One morning, I woke up hearing coughing in the hallway. I went up to take a look and there was Peter, pacing back and forth again. But this time his pattern had changed. He walked back and forth toward my piano neighbor’s door. His right hand was in a fist. He looked angry like he wanted to bang on her front door, but instead he would back away and pace back toward his own door. Then he would walk up to her door again, fists clinched, but he would not bang, but he would make movements that he wanted to. Instead he would again stop himself and pace back toward his own door. Then he would turn around and approach her door again. This went on repeatedly for some time.

A part of me wanted him to bang on her door this early morning to make her conscious that the world did not just revolve around her. To show her that her unappreciated piano practicing and singing disturbed others. To frighten her. To make her stop finally. To put an end to all this. But his pacing continued, and there was no change until finally Peter went outside to have a cigarette. After a few moments, he finally approached his own door, opened it, and went inside quietly. I waited and watched for a while, but he did not return. I went back to bed and went to sleep.

I found out that Peter was asked to leave. His tenancy, although short, was disturbing others in the complex. It was a liability issue I’m sure; but shortly before he moved, he saw me outside by my car. He approached me, and I was frightened. But he spoke to me gently. Perhaps he sensed my fear, or perhaps he was calmed by his medication. He said, “That woman who plays the piano, she plays every day for hours. Is she a musician?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.