The End of an Era?

It’s like “Previously, on Neighbour.” Our series finale is coming up, and he’s performing the live action variant of a clip show covering the highlights of what happened so far. It’s a strange idea, but somehow I get the feeling my neighbour is going to miss me.

As soon as I enter he pops out to greet me. Half clothed and full of pride, he tucks at his belt and gives me the self-satisfied look he displays every now and then.

“Listen up, I won again. 100 Euros for travelling, not too shabby, eh? Hold on, let me show you. Stay right there.”

He pops into his flat, closing his door behind him, and pops back out a little later with a letter.

“You gotta help me out here, you need to go on the Internet and get it for me. It says you can call too, but I’ve been trying that number all day without any luck. Here, take a look.”

As I’m reading the letter from the travel agency inviting him to a 100 Euro discount on his next booking, he mumbles some things about computers and email, but I focus on the print.

“Sorry man,” I tell him, “but I think it’s a bit of a scam. You don’t get 100 Euros, just a discount on a booking. Unless you want to book a trip?”

He looks disappointed.

“Just that, huh? Well, that’s bullshit then. Oh well, better than nothing at all. See ya.”

I close the door behind me in my flat, drop my bag and jacket and fall down on my sofa. Pondering what to do next I hear the bell ring.

“Look what else I got!” He’s waving another letter in front of me, than comes to my side and holds it in front of my face. He points at the words as he reads them.

“Four new dvds per month, for a period of 12 months, by TV Spielfilm.”

He’s told me about this on two previous occasions, actually, but I guess now I have proof.

“Yeah, yeah, you mentioned that,” I tell him. “That’s awesome man.”

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that I’m leaving, but for the first time I find myself actually looking at his tattoos. There’s one on his right upper arm of a Viking woman. The other one is one the inside of his left arm and is harder to make out. It looks like a barrel with some sort of Viking crest on it. Both have that faded blue look that aged tattoos get.

About twenty minutes later, my peace is once more disturbed by the doorbell. This time he’s carrying a cardboard box filled with bottles of olive oil. There’s a smaller box on the floor, as a teaser, while my neighbour builds up the suspense.

“Do you like olive oil? Look here, I got six bottles of it as a prize. That’s expensive, you know. Really good stuff, I like olive oil. In fact, I just made a tomato salad with it. Here you go, take one.”

Olive oil is hard to say no to, so I accept the gesture and thank him for it.

“I also got this… hold on a second.” He puts the box down and picks up the smaller one. He pulls out a porcelain dispenser, which indeed looks quite nice.

“See that? Not too shabby, eh. It dispenses the olive oil. You know you always have to give olive oil some air. It needs the oxygen for its full flavour. So you pour it into here, and you can keep it there and then dispense it. That’s Italian, you know, it doesn’t get much better than that.”

I admire his dispenser and once more thank him for the oil, but because of that transaction I cannot make myself be the one to break up this chat. So he continues.

“I really like olive oil. I also got a lot of cheese. Would you like some?”

“Thanks man, but I don’t really like cheese.”

“Why not?” He looks stunned.

“I don’t know, I just don’t like it.”

He eyes me with curiosity. “I like all kinds of cheese, Gouda, Edammer – it doesn’t necessarily have to be Dutch, although Dutch cheese is much better than German cheese. I like French too, do you want some?”

“Nah, thanks man, I don’t really like cheese.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t like the taste of it.”

He looks at me with a hint of disgust. “You’re spoiled, you. Cheese is one of the best things in the world. Well, whatever, you have a good night and fuck off.”

Later that evening I go downstairs to get my laundry out of the machine, and as I return to our domain he sticks his face and a hand out the door and hands me a box of orange juice.

“Take that,” he says, “Bio orange juice. That’s the best orange juice money can buy.”

And he closes his door.

Ten minutes later, he rings again.

It’s interesting how your tolerance to something annoying grows when you know for a fact that it’s coming to an end, but perhaps it’s also a little more complex than that.

This time he’s holding a little white box with a familiar watch in it.

“Do you have a watch, hmm?”

I do indeed, though I’m not wearing it. “Aw man, yeah, you already gave me one of those.”

“And does it still work?”

“Uhm, yeah, yeah, it does, but you know, I never wear a watch. I usually use my mobile phone, actually.”

“But it still works doesn’t it? That watch will last a 100 years, you won’t even live that long!”

“I suppose not.”

He looks at me, and he looks a little sad.

“Are you sure you don’t want it?”

I probably should just take it, but instead I politely refuse.

“Well,” he says, hiding his disappointment. “It was well-meant. I got plenty of watches, you know – gold ones even, but I’m not giving you those.”

“That’s alright man,” I say. “Thanks for offering though.”

“Alles klar. Fick dich.”

And we close our doors.