A Neighbor Even Mr. Rogers Wouldn’t Like

You see, we live in a neighborhood in the ‘burbs of San Francisco. And in neighborhoods, you have, well, neighbors. (As you do anywhere really, unless you live on a farm in Iowa or an iceberg somewhere near Greenland, s’pose.) I’ve lived her going on six months now and cannot tell you a single one of their names. (I’m thinking there’s a Dian across the street somewhere, but I could not successfully pick her out of a lineup.) Basically, if I ever need to borrow a cup of sugar, I’m screwed. Good thing I don’t bake.

The couple to our immediately right–or um, left if you’re facing the house–likely entered the AARP realm six decades ago. I’d say they’re both 80 easily, 127 possibly, and while the wife seems perfectly nice–besides mistaking me for SVV’s SISTER the only time we’ve actually exchanged pleasantries (no offense to Lisa, but I’d hope I’m not sharing a bed and, well, life with my sibling!)–the husband, on the other hand, is one old, crochety piece of work (SVV and I accordingly refer to him simply, lovingly, as “Old Balls”).

So back in April, he took up this little home renovation project a la Ty Pennington, in which he has TORN APART EVERY LAST SHINGLE AND BRICK ON THE WALL THAT FACES OUR HOUSE. (Apology for the heavy use of caps, but I know no other way to relay the precise annoyance that this little fixer-upper hobby has caused.)

But isn’t his kumquat tree divine?

I don’t think he really “gets” that I’m a WRITER and WORK FROM HOME (he’s not the only one, I’m sure; I get questions from all sorts of people, politely: “what do you do all day?” “um, blog, isn’t it obvious?” Ha!). I bet every time he sees me during daylight hours he thinks, “Oh, it’s SVV’s little unemployed girlfriend again, heading off to run or attend a yoga class. Doesn’t she do anything else with her time?!?” Strike that, he’s so old, that’s too many thoughts running through his mind at once. Instead, it’s probably something like this: “But look at her ass in Spandex!”

In May, he was drilling on a daily basis, and not your run-of-the-mill power drill, but this heavy duty sucker that you can hear from five blocks away. It’s so loud, in fact, he has to wear some serious headphones to protect his precious, aging eardrums. I, being his direct next-door neighbor, must put up with this crap. I’m too timid to say anything–thanks Southern upbringing!–but finally one day in May it was just too much. I marched over to the front door and knocked. And knocked. Banged some more. Rang the doorbell. Nothing. I considered leaving a note, but decided against it. So finally when the drilling recommenced, I popped over the fence, Wilson-style in Home Improvement.

Cordially, I inquired: “Excuse me, sir, I’m just wondering when you might expect to be done with your project (at the time, it had been a good month since he started). It’s just that I’m a writer and work from home under daily deadlines, and it’s pretty difficult to work under such circumstances.” I failed to add that phone interviews many stories require were completely out of the question.

“Heh?” he volleyed back over the fence. “Yeah, I know it’s loud (if you understand the depth of pain you’re imposing on others, why keep doing it???). Um, I should be done in 10 minutes or so.”

And so he was. That day. But two months later, the daily pounding still goes on. Later that same afternoon, he did come over and apologize and ask when I’d be done with my work, so he could know not to drill. That was nice of him, sure, but he meant for that one day, not all subsequent. I told him that, it’s not as easy as that, as I’m constantly working on assignments. I asked if he could just give me a timeframe on when he works every afternoon, so I could plan on being out of the house at that time. He responded, in his crochety manner: “Well, it varies, depending on how I feel that day.”

Now, I realize we’re all entitled to work on our respective houses at our convenience, but don’t you think it’s a tad rude to make so much noise for four months ongoing, when you live in California and have neighbors at every angle just feet from your own house? Or am I being a bit out-of-line here? It pisses SVV off, too, who often comes down with migraines, but can’t get a nap in, because our bedroom windows face Old Balls’ casa. Besides that, ever the jack of all trades and friendly neighbor–with his sewing skills, carpentry genius, handyman ways (and dashing good looks, of course!), he’s the type you want to live next door to—SVV had gone over in early days and offered to help him (his offer was declined), analyzed the situation and realized Old Balls was going about it all wrong. Translation? A seemingly easy, few-weeks project would turn into months of unnecessary banging. SVV tried to relay this, but Old Balls, once again, didn’t really get it.

I’ve been out of town so much in the last month–19 out of the past 30 days if anyone’s keeping track–that the noise hasn’t gotten to me in awhile. But now that I’m furiously trying to finish up this manuscript that was due, oh, three days ago now–no, transient travels and The Running Bob, I’m still nowhere there–the noise? IS KILLING ME. I’ve tried music, but then I end up singing along to the song or too distracted to write if it’s purely instrumental. I’ve tried noise-canceling headphones, but even they do little to mask the jack-hammering that’s going on just 10 feet from my computer. Our house is so small–just over 1,000 square feet (which I realize isn’t that small after various apartments half the size shared with three others in Manhattan, but for an actual free-standing establishment, it’s pretty tiny)–that it’s not like I can just go in another room and the noise will miraculously disappear.

So how would you deal with such a pain-in-the-ass neighbor? Is it rude of me to continue (politely) asking him to stop? If not, then how should I nicely broach the subject once again?