Lisa emailed me to tell me The Chuckys are moving out in four days. We call them "The Chuckys" because of a story that Jen, the superintendent, relayed to me one day while we were doing laundry.
"Leslie, you don’t understand how crazy these people are. Okay, it’s not just that they beat the shit out of each other. The day they moved in, up pulls this huge truck. Were there any boxes in this truck? No! It was full of Chucky dolls. Just Chuckys. The rest of their stuff came separately. Can you fucking imagine how scary the inside of their apartment must be? If I ever have to go in there, I’m bringing a bat."
My building is really solid and really quiet. None of us get a lot of sound travelling through the walls. Sometimes through the floor and sometimes from the hallway, but never – very rarely – through the walls. We’ve all experienced these people. And their equally obnoxious chihuahua.
Ann and Mitch, perhaps the most quiet, most likeable (and least likely to be caught cursing) people in the building, bore the brunt of The Chuckys high-volume, abusive fighting. They said that the arguing was so loud, it often felt like The Chuckys were having dinner with them. They made a game out of it.
Mitch: Pass the salt, Bitch.
Ann: Fuck you. Whore!
I mean, what else are you going to do? The Chuckys moved into the building a month or so after I did.* It takes time to build up a case for eviction. Eventually, the male Chucky was witnessed threatening another tenant when she knocked on their door hoping she would embarass them into simmering down. Fate sealed. Enjoy your last four days with us, Assholes.
* That was June.
Update: I just got in, it’s 2am and I just saw The Chuckys leaving in their U-Haul. It seems they’re gone. So long, Fuckers.