West Hollywood Mystery: What’s The Deal With My Crazy Neighbor?

I’m kind of a low-key genius spy and I’ve all but completely cracked the case of what exactly the deal is with my downstairs neighbor. He is almost definitely gay-for-pay, perhaps gay for real and probably the most angry and under medicated person I have ever met. There may be serious drugs in the mix, but I’m actually less convinced that’s the case here.

I am going to report my findings to you here, along with a series of photographs from his now vacant apartment, and you can leave me a comment with your conclusions that I’ll never read in case it could hurt my feelings. Yeah, I’m probably a covert narcissist.

Important note: This “game” is simply for my own pleasure because I can be super lazy at times and invest myself in the drama around me instead of things that would better my life of the lives of others. It’s for “fun.” 

Here are the facts:

  • He’s got A- looks, a D+ personality and he always dates B-/C+ chicks (He’s being graded on the curve of how I feel about myself, FYI.)
  • He’s a sometimes-working actor. You probably wouldn’t know him unless you were a huge fan of a series and seen every episode three times and had all the bit players faces memorized. That said, he’s been able to afford an apartment that costs $1750/month for the last three years. 
  • He’s been trying to launch his own brand of organic dog biscuits for as long as I’ve known him and they’ve very recently been professionally packaged. 
  • He’s nice as hell to me. We’ve only had one tense encounter in the two years we’ve been neighbors. I broke and finally texted him saying that he and his girlfriend cannot fight under my bed past two a.m., he told me my dog barks too much, I told him that I don’t think my dog barks over where he sleeps for five hours straight on a weeknight but if he does I will do what I can to remedy that, he apologized, we were all good. 
  • He’s a huge stoner. The building smells like a Hampshire College dorm room on April 20th every single day. He smokes Black & Mild cigars like they are cigarettes. I’ve bought weed from him a handful of times. 
  • He’s been in two serious relationships while I’ve known him. Both girlfriends were the jealous type and glared at me as I entered and exited the building every day. He told me I probably shouldn’t even say hello to him when Girlfriend #1 was around, which is ironic because…
  • I side with his girlfriends. He has been a vicious asshole to both of them. The fighting that has gone on in the downstairs apartment is truly psychotic. They’d seemingly come out of no where, many times after I’d hear them having wild sex. I’d be watching Real Housewives with my dog, drinking my Kim Crawford savi blanc, and suddenly I’d hear him scream “What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking bitch?” and then I’d hear her be like, “Stoooppp. I didn’t doooo annnyyything. You’re fucking bi-polaaaar” and then I’d hear a loud crash. One of these loud crashes was him ripping his medicine cabinet off of the bathroom wall and throwing it into the bathtub. 
  • These kind of fights resulted in physical violence on the girlfriend’s ends. I know for a fact that both of them would regularly beat the shit out of him. 
  • My landlord refused to call the cops on him because he claimed he couldn’t hear the arguing. I never called the cops because I know that a domestic violence call legally has to result in one party being taken away and booked and I didn’t want to have that, “Hey, cool shirt. How was your night in jail?” convo around the mailbox because I am a woman with no upper body strength who lives alone. 
  • He was regularly late on his rent and would somehow always come up with it once the landlord would post a “week to pay or get out” notice on his door. 
  • He would often leave for Vegas and be gone for days at a time. Vegas! Who can spend more than 24 hours in Vegas? He claimed he was a card player and that he could make a lot of cash doing it. 
  • One night I may or may not have seen an openly gay screenwriter leave our building. When I went inside, everything reeked of Febreeze and Glade candles. I poked my head in his open door and saw that all of his disgusting hoarder-y piles of stuff and trashy furniture were covered in bed sheets. Shortly after I saw him on the porch smoking a Black & Mild in a white tank top, hair slicked back, nodding his head to a beat that only he could hear. My uterus told me that he’d hooked up that night (hence the shoddy clean up job — we’ve all had our “fuck, this hookup is coming over, maybe I can just Febreze the nightmares out of here before he gets here” moment) and was looking for another hook up. I have no proof of this, this is just what my uterus told me. 
  • He gave me a box of his organic dog treats when he’d finished the packaging and there may-or-may not have been an endorsement on the side of the box from a famous producer/director who may or may not be known for taking young twinky boys and telling them he’d make them famous if they’d be his companion. 
  • He may or may not have played a bit role in one of this guys’ films. 
  • My BFF and I may or may not have found his name as a former companion of this man in the comment section of a blog dedicated to West Hollywood sex gossip.
  • His dog treats may or may not appear on a shelf or a desk of the producer/director’s most recent summer blockbuster.
  • He may or may not have been evicted this month after he was late on his rent for his third month in a row. The eviction deal was apparently sealed when he screamed at my out-and-proud 50-something landlord that he was going to call the police on him for being a “tweaker,” forcing him to have an orgy in the living room of his apartment and for “sucking dicks.” Why so homophobic, dude? Why do you think the West Hollywood police would jump into action upon hearing that someone has performed fellatio in his life?
  • I have heard the words “sucking dicks” and variations thereof more times in the last month than I ever have in my life and I once subleased a room in a frat house with thirty-two guys. 
  • He took off to a Southern state with his girlfriend (where he now resides) and left his kitten alone in his apartment for over a week. I think the kitten’s fine now, she went with him when he moved. 

Of course my landlord came over and gossiped to me about everything. I got all of the details about his eviction, the fact that he was somehow able to bury the fact that he was evicted three times prior to moving into our building and that he’d only let him move in despite his lousy credit score because he assumed he was a cute gay guy who would take good care of his apartment. 

When my neighbor moved out, my landlord let me take a peek inside of his apartment. He even allowed me to take photos. The two of us had a goddamn kiki in there. We looked at all of the shit he’d left behind, the weird signs that suggested drug use, the general filth.

Here are the pics:

Screen Shot 2014-06-26 at 6.08.14 PM
Sad ugly art and couch/coffee table covered in plastic, left for the maintenance man to clean up.
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Hole in the wall next to bathroom.
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Ugly-ass duvet in a trash bag.
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Dream catcher that was abandoned on the ceiling over his bed (this, in my opinion, is the darkest photo of them all).
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Bed. I don’t know why I’m so shocked that he was sleeping on a full mattress that was on the floor but I was. I was so shocked when I saw this.
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Second darkest image: The word “Relax” written on the kitchen wall in pencil. Whether or not the “R” intentionally looks like a musical note is hard to tell.
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Classic IKEA chandelier next to a red stain on the ceiling. The landlord couldn’t explain where this stain could have possibly come from. I told him that as an admitted wino, I was pretty sure it was red wine that was splashed on the ceiling.
Screen Shot 2014-06-26 at 6.15.44 PM
Stray Trady Jo-Jo Olive Oil. Sadface.
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Space in kitchen where the cat’s litter box and food was kept before they moved.
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Air conditioner and filter.
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Hole in the wall that looks like a cat and a kind of sweet tribute to love surrounded by protective gear.

I had complete permission to take these photos. I should also add that as I was taking them, my landlord kept saying, “Oh, Molly, you just gotta write about this. I mean, how about this? This is something you’ve got to write about.”

I think that’s a fair pass on this investigation of mine going public. I’m sure someone’s going to call me a homophobe because of the nature of this particular “case” but I can assure you that I am an equal opportunity spy and I take the facts/information as they come to me.

Please leave your thoughts/diagnoses/theories in the comment section. Don’t do it for me, do it for every single person I’ve spoken to in the last year and a half who’s had to come on this journey with me. I’d like to put this case to bed and focus on the lawyer who teaches night classes that I’ve chosen as my new subject. 

Molly McAleer lives in Los Angeles with her chihuahua and can be found on Twitter (@molls) and on Instagram (@itsmolls). Her writing has appeared on your television, your Internet and the bathroom walls of your favorite cyber cafes.

Keep up with Molly on Twitter

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