We know far too much about our neighbors here at the 501. Our first taste of communal living was at the Cove Motel on Vashon—long known as the best place on the island to get weed. We lived above a group of bikers who Bob called "the dark ones". A constantly changing, indeterminate number of them lived there, all with rumbley bikes and hard blondes. I tried once to voice a polite protest about the ongoing party, but backed away quickly as soon as the tallest, baddest one answered the front door.

When we lived in Los Angeles in the 80's, we always rented an apartment; we didn't even know anyone who lived in an entire house. Our first place was a first floor, 800 square foot, one bedroom with a view of Westwood Village—if you sat on the floor in the bedroom and looked out the window. One night, shortly after we moved in, I was sitting on the floor next to the bed looking out the window, heard an unusual humming noise in the sky, looked up and there was an enormous, brightly lit blimp floating by with a picture of Snoopy on the side. We were definitely not on Vashon anymore.

The occupant who lived below us was a young, swarthy resident at the nearby UCLA Medical Center—comforting if we needed emergency care. He was, however, a great fan of the opera. After a long night's work, he unwound to Puccini, Verdi, or one of the louder German operas at full blast and was not interested in altering his routine. Bob and I, when pushed to the limit with one too many arias, went head to head with him by stomping as hard as we could using a broom as additional percussion. This did nothing but annoy him and force him to turn up the volume so that he could continue to hear Callas, Pavarotti or other less skillful screamers. We vowed never again to live in a group setting.

Across the hall was a young screenwriter who lived in an even smaller apartment than ours. He wrote sitting on the floor outside his front door on an old Royal balanced on his lap. On our other side was the coolest couple I'd ever known. He was a curly-headed community activist and she was a drop-dead gorgeous grade school teacher. Both were lithe, graceful, and green way ahead of their time. They eventually bought and moved into a house in Laurel Canyon and left us a 50's style dresser that we still use. He became a city councilman and I'm sure that she saved the world (or became a world-famous model).

For the next thirteen years we stuck to our guns, avoided apartment living and spread out in an entire house. Well, here we are again—living communally. Did we just forget our vow? We were swayed by the beautiful view, the quiet neighborhood, and the graceful courtyard. And to top it off, not only are we living communally—we are living on the first floor!

The first person to live above us was a dream—single professional woman, always considerate, slight build, light on her feet, and never home. Second group—a nightmare. Single mom, a yapping dog, a thirteen year old with lots of friends, and a 24 year old with a bad boyfriend. Current guy—big-boned, close to his brother and his small nephews, twenty-something girlfriend, and loves his music! Poor Bob, after a hard day on his feet in front of twenty grumpy doctors, he listened to my rant about the stomping above and said, "He also pees standing up".  I'd missed that one, but sure enough—the audible image is unmistakable. The music and the girlfriend may be negotiable, but probably not the peeing preference.