Won't You Be My Neighbor

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...

It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood,
A neighborly day for a beauty.
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?...

I've always wanted to have a neighbor just like you.
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.

So, let's make the most of this beautiful day.
Since we're together we might as well say:
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please,
Won't you please?
Please won't you be my neighbor?


This is a story about our neighbor....

Our current apartment is equipped with storage facilities down in the basement. My first venture down to the storage units was in August, a few days after our arrival, and all I could really think about was how these "cells" would be perfect for the Gimp from Pulp Fiction, or perhaps something Hannibal Lecter might use. Our apartment unit is #26, but when I went to unit #26 it was already in use. Our key for storage, however, fit the lock for storage unit #28. One problem - the handle for #28 was broken. Thinking that all of these units corresponded to our apartments, occupied primarily by the teachers from ACS, I didn't think it would be a big deal if I put all of our empty suitcases into unit #27. I placed our eight suitcases into the cell and locked it up. That was in August.

Last weekend, when we returned home from a weekend in Varna, I went down to the storage unit for a second time. I had three bins to add to our cell. I unlocked the first door, which leads down to the dungeon, but when I approached the storage unit I could tell something was different, but was unsure due to the length of time it had been since I had been down there. The lock, pictured above, was not our lock. None of my keys worked for that lock. I thought that perhaps I was wrong. Maybe we were in #26, although deep down I felt like I knew that #27 was indeed ours. No luck with #26. I tried my key in all of the masterlocks - no luck. I returned to #27 and noticed something else quite odd. Somebody had placed a sticker under the number: a skull and crossbones. Uh oh, I thought, this is serious. This is a sign, definitely a sign, and not a good one. I grabbed one of the bins, jumped on top, and looked through the eight inch gap found above the door. Empty. No suitcases. My new blue, Tommy Hilfigger roller - gone. Kate's supersized, black Samsonite - gone. Everything gone.

This was not good.

I rushed back to the apartment with the three bins, walked into the house, and yelled at Kate, "None of our stuff is there. There's a sticker on our unit with a skull and crossbones. No joke." She was in disbelief, and wanted to confirm the info. We both went back down, this time equipped with a neighbor's headlamp, to take a look. We searched every unit, peering into the space above the door, in search of our things. We looked in about fifteen cells and found nothing of ours. Somebody has stolen all of our bags. We were devestated. We were upset. We needed to figure this out.

We returned upstairs to our aparment and began telling our neighbor/colleagues about what we had found (or did not find). They were as incredulous as we were. After venting a bit with our peeps, we decided to call our landlord Galia. We informed her of the situation (she speaks English, as does her husband) and she told us she would come immediately.

As we were pacing about our apartment waiting, the doorbell (sounds of birds chirping, no joke) sounded. At the door was our neighbor, Shelly, with an unknown Bulgarian man - a good neighbor. He spoke a little bit of English and went on to tell us about a note that had been posted on the front door of our building the week before. It was written in Bulgarian and said something along the lines of "If you have put your stuff into storage #27, come to apartment #40 to discuss the situation." Being complete novices in the Bulgarian language, we never even took one look at any notices on the front door. However, it was our first big clue and gave us a little bit of hope.

Thirty minutes later Galia and her husband were at the door. They first took a look at our keys and asked why we weren't in #28. I told her about the switch from #28 to #27, and her husband exclaimed, in an English steeped in his thick Bulgarian accent, "This is not good." He paused, I held my breath, and then he muttered, "You have made a big mistake." This is never a good thing to hear, especially when you are in a foreign country.

All four of us went down to investigate further. As we stood in front of the cells, both #28 and #27, some Bulgarian was spoken between husband and wife. After a few minutes of confusion, Galia looked to us and said, "Okay, I know owner of this storage. We all go now to see if he is home."

Her husband added, "I hope he has not sold or throw out your luggage." Expecting the worst, and with little hope of getting our bags back, we went over to building #1 of our apartment complex. The four of us packed ourselves into the tiny elevator and made our way up to the top floor. Galia knocked on the front door as Kate and I both sat back, a little scared to be honest, ready to meet our good neighbor.

The man who opened the door fit right into the stereotypical image of an Eastern European male - big and stalky, shaved head, shirt unbuttoned two buttons too many, and a thick silver chain around his neck - and he didn't hesitate to give us the once over along with a little smirk. He knew who we were. Galia explained the situation, they exchanged some words, and then Galia gave a great sigh, which to me meant that our stuff was here, or somewhere. He looked over to us once again and played a quick game of charades - he made two fists and gave the motion of hands holding bolt cutters and cutting a lock. Then he smiled. Then he told us to meet him down in the garage.

Heck, I didn't even know we had a garage.

Relieved, we went down to the garage. I guess a select few with the means have a space in the underground garage. Of course, our newfound neighbor/friend has his BMW parked down there. And, I figured, this was where we would find our stuff. He appeared after some time, opened up his garage unit, revealing our eight bags. He looked over to us, then to Galia and her husband, and said that he had read our tags with all of our information, including apartment number and school phone number, but he thought it better not to contact us. In fact, he said, "I wanted to punish these people."

He wanted to punish us? What the #%$&!?! Who is this guy. What a nice neighborly thing to do. He sure taught us our lesson.

So, let's get this straight. One day our neighbor comes down to his storage unit to find it locked with a Masterlock. He takes
one look, doesn't like what he sees, and decides that he will snap this masterlock easily with his handy pair of bolt cutters that he keeps in his apartment for cases such as this. He could have called Galia and let her know that one of her tenants has his space...Naw, that is silly. It is much better to break the lock and then take all eight bags out and carry them over to the garage. Then I will put up a sticker to warn off any other would be storage stealers. Also, I will post a message on the door to inform the poor bastards that if they want there stuff back they better come begging, crawling on hands and knees, to apartment #40. When these little peons do show up, I will laugh in their face, tell them how simple it was to break open their lock, and let them know that they have just been taught a lesson by the Bulgarian Godfather - never mess with my storage unit.

Well, I must say that this was quite the experience. It was nice to finally meet one of our neighbors. I have always wanted a neighbor just like this, although another tune keeps running through my head: "A crazy Bulgarian gangster is a person in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, a crazy Bulgarian gangster is a person in your neighborhood, a person that you see each day."

I sure hope not.