• While in bed last night, the jingle of keys and repeated clacks of, what I thought, were doors closing stirred me. Initially my ears were perked in the direction of my bathroom wall and the neighbors concealed therein. As the racket proceeded, I vacated my bedroom in order to ascertain the cause and develop a new course of action, as wishful neglect was proving fruitless.
  • Shortly after exiting my bedroom, it became abundantly clear that the disturbance was instead coming from outside my very own front door! As I approached the peephole, my eyes rolled like a 16-pound bowling ball thrown by an overambitious eight-year-old; slowly and deliberately. The assumption being the similarly-aged male neighbor across the hall was returning from a rough night of boozing. He was so blasted he couldn't open his own front door, I thought.
  • As I lifted the peephole to peer out, the door pulsed towards me. And again.
  • Drunkard: Come on, nothings working tonight.
  • I hesitated. Would the drunkard stumble in as soon as I opened the door? Would they argue this was their apartment? I've seen several news stories over the years about drunks entering the wrong house or apartment and being found passed out in a bed or lounging on the couch the next morning. If I hadn't locked my door, it would have happened to me. After fetching a shirt, I took the plunge.
  • Me: I think you have the wrong apartment.
  • Drunkard: You're right. I'm sorry.
  • Me: It's no problem.
  • Drunkard: I'm really sorry about that.
  • And with that I closed the door. Should I have offered help in finding the proper apartment or maybe even building? After all, I'd never seen this individual in my building before. It was not my neighbor across the hall, but an older, black-haired, Caucasian, female stranger.
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