Soppho

Let’s talk about my favorite neighbors. They are definitely not the renters that live next door: two people and one dog in an apartment even smaller than mine, where the only separate room is the bathroom. The dog never barks, but I’m pretty sure both of them do. And not the inhabitants of cursed apartment number 7, the one below mine, which, coincidentally appears to be the gateway to hell, considering the noises and smells that emanate from there at all hours of the day. And definitely not the three girls and one of their boyfriends (well, I’m assuming he was the boyfriend of just one of them, but you never know) who used to live downstairs. When the girl and her boyfriend would fight, the three girls would gang up on him and lock him out of the apartment. He, in turn, would scream, tear their festive wreath off of the door and rip it apart in the hallway. I’m pretty sure one of the incredibly natural-looking fuchsia iridescent leaves is still in the corner of the stairwell. When things were going well between them, they spread the happy news for all of us to see, dispatching used condoms all over the hallway like streamers.

No, my favorite neighbors are an adorable couple called Frank and Gloria.

Meet Gloria.

Or maybe this is Frank. Whatever.

Anyway, Frank and Gloria took up residence in the hole above my roof a few years ago. You can see their entrance in the picture of Frank. Or Gloria. Sure, they’re total freeloaders who don’t pay rent, but most people in my apartment complex don’t either; that’s what they have parents for. And, sure, they like to renovate their apartment first thing in the morning, but I can assure you that Y Chromosome is after even more irritating pursuits at 7 AM. They squabble a bit, too, but doesn’t every couple? I’ve been told that squirrels typically live alone, which only makes me even more fond of them.

They even had babies last year. This one is Julio, who liked to sit on top of my air conditioner, much to Gloria’s loudly expressed chagrin.

My mother calls squirrels “rats with tails,” which doesn’t actually make sense, but I rather like them. When my ex-boyfriend and I were walking home from the store years ago we found a couple of orphaned baby squirrels under a tree. I took my new martini glasses out of their box and placed the babies inside, and they lived with us for a few days until Wildlife Services came to pick them up.

We called this one Sir Reginald Angelfood because, well, I have no idea why.

When he was a kid, Y Chromosome’s parents had two pet squirrels, who famously belly flopped into a fresh pizza that was waiting to go in the oven, then tracked sauce through the house. They used to run along the top of Y Chrome’s crib and hide things in his grandmother’s bun. I’m a firm believer that squirrels may be decent neighbors, but they are not made to be roommates; Y Chrome disagrees. I’m pretty sure he’s secretly rooting for Frank and Gloria to bust through my wall and right into my living room. That’s why he spends so much time banging his head into the wall, right? RIGHT?

And I suspect that if ever I do come home to an apartment full of squirrels, they will have complete run of the place, what with Louie quivering under the bed in a puddle of his own cowardice.

I know, I know. I should probably let my illustrious rental company know about my favorite neighbors, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Frank and Gloria would look ridiculous covered in caulk.