My first apartment, we had:
Psycho Bob: Lived in the studio apt next door. Never went out, lived on disability. A rather nice guy actually, but he’s too creepy. 250 lbs, balding, long hair, drove absolute beater cars with spray paint over the rust spots.
Carl the Pedophile Upstairs: Again, nice guy, not really a pedo. He’s a home painter/sports photographer that would leave for weeks at a time. The 15 year old girl next door had a fascination with him because her supplied her brother with weed.
The Whore Next Door: When new landlords bought the house, they kicked out Psycho Bob and Carl, renovated the apartment upstairs and Whore Next Door moved into the studio. She was one of the landlord’s mistress. Since he is a lawyer, he also gets her out of a lot of drug offenses.
Swearing Guy: this fellow lived in the condo above my friend L’s condo for a while. We thought he had Tourette’s, though he seemed able to turn it on and off at will. He wore glasses with masking tape on them, grubby clothes, and just generally looked like hell whenever he went outside. Turns out the poor bastard had also had a schizophrenic break which ruined his career as a broker.
Sorry, but we just call him That Crazy Guy. He’s a black guy who’s always bundled up in a heavy jacket and a furry hat with earflaps, and he walks briskly along the highway. He’s crazy because it’s ninety-five degrees out there, and once you factor in the humidity…well, I have no idea how the guy stays alive. My husband thinks maybe his clothes are full of ice packs.
I didn’t invent it but Boston an honest to god celebrity, superstar homeless person called the Chili Guy.
You can see why here although he has hours of other interviews on file.
Audio but safe for work.
We’ve just had The Loudmouths move in up the street. I don’t think any members of this family have used normal speaking voices in years–everything they say is a shout. We first heard them when they were moving in, and while I could understand if they had to yell at each other from the house to the moving truck, I couldn’t when they were taking a break from unloading, and still shouted at each other. And it wasn’t just moving day; since then, we’ve heard the Loudmouths on a number of occasions.
Also up the street was a family we dubbed The Motorheads. On any day of the week, there were a number of cars in various stages of repair (or disrepair) parked in their driveway and on the street. The garage, which was usually open, looked to be a well-equipped shop. Of course, as repairs and modifications were made, the cars had to be tested–which they were, up and down our street, and occasionally through the park across the street; and always at high speeds. Amazing no neighbourhood child was killed.
And I can’t forget Mr. Trailer Man. He owns a huge RV trailer that is bigger than the place he has to park it. So he tore down part of his fence and a row of trees to make room for his trailer. It still overhangs part of the neighbour’s property. To his credit, he does use the trailer often, but if he had to rip down his fence and his trees, something that size just seems excessive. Heck, if he could afford that big trailer, he could afford a house with enough room for his trailer.
And of course, there’s Caesar. He seems a nice, inoffensive, family guy, with a nice wife and kids who enjoy playing in their yard. But Caesar obviously wasn’t happy with the house as the architect designed it. In went white pillars supporting curved balconies, wrought iron railings, special lighting, extra stonework, and an elegant stone barbecue in the back yard. The effect is a little over-the-top for our neighbourhood–indeed, if you were to add some neon signage, you’d have something that would look more at home in, say, Las Vegas (we privately call his house “Caesar’s Palace,” hence his nickname), than a quiet nondescript suburban neighbourhood.
Butt Bandits Generic term for those sometimes homeless, sometimes not, people you see who go around picking up partially smoked cigarettes out of public ashtrays and even off the sidewalk. Ewwww.
The Rock Star A Butt Bandit we’d always see walking around downtown Minneapolis when I worked there. Always wearing a blue jogging suit and wrap around sunglasses. From a distance it looked like the thought he was something, but up close you could see the icky.
Elmer Fudd There was this Hmong (?) guy I used to see walking along the road every once in a while when I lived in North Minneapolis. Guy had to be just over 4’ tall and ALWAYS had on this big bright orange hunting cap with the ear flaps, looking about 3 sizes too big for his head.
If you’ve spent any time in Capitol Hill in Denver, you’ve probably been approached by the woman I call **Whisperin’ Lil ** (she looks like a Lily who would rather be called Lil), who will ask you for money (“Would you happen to have any change?”) in a tone that’s just barely audible. When you ask her to repeat herself, she’ll ask you the same question in a more normal tone of voice. I think it’s her way of extending the conversation and thereby increasing the odds that someone will give her money.
Latex Lady patrols the corner of Holly and Evans in Denver, wearing blue plastic gloves on her hands while holding a sign asking for money. She got on the bus once when I happened to be on it; she placed an empty garbage bag on her seat before sitting down on it. Latex Lady’s one of the more germ-phobic panhandlers I’ve ever seen.
The Colonel lives three houses down my street. I don’t know for sure if he was in the service, but the way he walks and keeps his car and lawn super-neat makes me think he’s used to everything being in order. He walks his dog past my house twice a day – he seems nice enough, but he never stops to chat.
Mrs. Urquhart and myself have bestowed nicknames on some of the Antiques Roadshow appraisers, unbeknownst to them:
Beaky nose-breather – let me explain. My car & my husband’s truck were broken into by a 19-yr-old at 2:00 am in early June of this year. A few days later, a township detective delivered court papers telling us when to report to court for the preliminary hearing.
We appeared at the courthouse a few minutes ahead of time. Being early was good. Ahead of us, a family of women held up the line trying to get a baby carrier & assorted baby gear throuogh the metal detector. The family consisted of a grandmother; two teenage girls, one older & brunette, the other young, blonde & skinny (I nicknamed her “Beaky the mouthbreather” because of her Roman nose & her habit of inhaling & exhaling through her mouth), and a brunette toddler girl. They finally got everything through the detector & we all went into the same court room.
The detective in charge informed us that Jas*n, the kid who’d broken into our vehicles, had checked himself into the local pyschiatric hospital, & the the case was being continued.
Two weeks later, we appeared in the same court room. This time, the family of women family of women were there in the courtroom as well. During a break, some of us went to the women’s room. Beaky the m-b was just ahead of me in line; she took off her suit-jacket to reveal a tattoo on her left becep. She had a line drawing of a mushroom. To the left of the mushroom was her name; to the right was Jasn’s name. We chatted, & she told me the baby was Jasn’s daughter, & that her boyfriend was pleading insanity by way of being drunk/stoned.
Goody. An immature drunk/druggy player “playa” who was allowed to breed. I never told her who I was, or about my relationship to her boyfriend’s case.
I pray for them all.
Love, Phil
Mods, 10,000 apologies for the typo’s…my hard drive crashed. I’m crouched on the floor, using my husband’s laptop. I’ll try to do better.
Love, Phil
Perfect Lawn Dude - we have this older retired guy in our neighborhood who has the best lawn I’ve ever seen, in part because he doesn’t seem to have anything better to do with his time than to mow, trim, fertilize, water, etc. Funny thing is, right across the street from Perfect Lawn Dude is a house known to just about everyone in the neighborhood as The Crack House. I don’t know if it was actually a crack house, but there were cars coming and going all the time (actually I think they may have been running a day care) and the neither the house or the lawn was kept up very well.
Not a person, but;
There is a restaurant here that we call, “The Eat and Stab.”
When we first moved here, 11ish years ago, there were stabbings in the bar on two straight weekends.
Good food though.
These are names I’ve assigned to two women I work with. This is so that my husband, who can’t remember names of my co-workers, will know who I’m talking about.
Shrieky McTrailer Trash - emits a loud, hissing shriek of laughter at frequent intervals during the day, particularly when reading IMs all day long at her computer. Dresses in shiny polyester overtight garb despite her large bulk, and wears gold lamé platform sandals. Tops off the ensemble with a crummy knee-length bathrobe-like cardigan sweater with pulled-out frays and loops. Sprays herself and the surrounding area liberally with horrifically stinky perfume. I had to sit within a few feet of her at one point.
Goofball McLamejoke - this one could never answer a question without making the answer into some sort of dumbass goofball joke. Really bad lame-o jokes, too, delivered with a weird dramatic flourish.
Both of the above characters were tight friends, and both of of the above characters were “laid off” simultaneously two days ago. No one misses them.
The only one I can think of is Iguana Girl, who worked in the computer lab at Memorial University of St. John’s, Newfoundland. She would sit and browse reptile forums in her spare time and occasionally talk about her pet iguana.
One day I took in a photo of the Newfie Prophet (a local character) to scan and post on a webpage. She saw the picture and said, “Oh! My sister used to date him.”
(I don’t see anything else about the Newfie Prophet online. Huh.)
Geezer B. McOldfart–the old person who drives his car so slowly that you have to ride your brakes to keep from hitting him–but speeds up just about the time you could pass him. Of course, he returns to uberslow when the no-passing zone reappears.
Also, he or she is the one who takes about six years to exit a parking space, even when you signal them to back on up.
Funny, I always heard 'em called Bobwhites. Because all you could see from behind them was the little white head bobbing up and down.
Klingons or Car Magnets. Assholes who get right up to the blind spot on the side of your car, then park there. No matter what speed you’re going. You’re fucked if you come up behind a slower vehicle, because dumbshit over there will slow along with you, preventing you from changing lanes. Same with attempting to move over in order to exit, or for any other purpose.
A variant of the same name is usually a young female or asian (sorry for the stereotype, but it’s extremely rare when it’s not one or both of the two!) who, despite you being the only car within a mile of them on a three lane freeway, will get five feet from your rear bumper and park there. I give 'em about a mile, then they get to say hello to Mr. Brake Lights and Mr. Middle Finger. Often very abruptly. I’m contemplating the name Uranian for them, because you look back and they’re right on your anus.
An old one, I don’t know this person anymore, but The Blur was a friend of a friend who was just kinda there. Big time moocher, but of little actual value. You’d turn around and he’d be gone, either out for a smoke or he’d just have gone home without saying a word. At this friend’s house, he’d let himself in, so he’d just kind of appear the same way, without a word. You’d turn around and he’d be hanging out by the door, just watching everyone. Really wierd.
When I used to get the bus to uni/work I used to see the same people on it everyday. I never knew their names but came up with a few of my own -
Fog Horn Lady - Usually found half way down the bus speaking extremely loud. Most people avoided sitting next to her. Usually she would sit down next to her victim and discuss rather perosnal topics out loud. God I love her…
Brief Case Man aka Norman - This guy would sit at the front of the bus and avoid fog horn lady. He always carried a brief case and a plastic bag with our local newspaper name written on it. I never knew his name until another member of the bus gang said it. Which brings me on the lonely shopkeeper lady.
Lonely Shopkeeper Lady aka Jessie - She was a friend of Brief Case Man and used to sit at the front with Norman to also avoid fog horn lady. I named her this because she reminded me of the lonely shopkeeper in chewin’ the fat. Sometimes she would take treats with her like cakes, etc
The Couple - I never caught the names of these two. He was extremely tall with glasses and at times looked like he was dressed for going hill walking. His other half was extremely short with glasses and looked dressed for the office apart from the hill walking coat. They always sat behind me and would talk about various things such as what was for dinner, what time they would meet for going home, visiting her mother (which sometimes caused a little tension). What made me laugh about these two was that they were clearly married but appeared to be afraid of upsetting one another (kind of like when you first get involved with someone new). I later found out they both worked at solicitors firms in the same area.
Shakey Lady - I think this poor woman had a condition that made her shake a lot. She was quite old and always carried a farmfoods bag that was about 15yrs old. She always got off at the somerfield to do her shopping.
The to go lady - This lady always carried a giant travelling mug with her. To this day I never knew what she was drinking. Was it coffee, tea, hot chocolate - we’ll never know…
I havent been on the bus for about 3 years since I moved. I know brief case man still gets the bus because he works accross the road from my new place. I like to think they are all still there avoiding fog horn lady. Good times, good times… 
Oh I forgot about these guys!
Rod aka Alasdair - He was in my college class back in the day. He really really really looked like Rod Stewart! For a good while I really thought it was him except one thing stood out - ‘Rod’ has stage fright. He wouldnt talk in front of the class.
Last Fag Pete aka Peter - This one goes back to my old school days. Everytime someone would ask him for a cigarette his response always was “sorry its my last one”. Ah last fag pete - y’know someday it will be your last one and no-ones gonna help you out!
Brain May aka my ex boss - simple this one - she has hair like Brian May. I had lots of other nicknames for her while I was under her employment…
Basement Boy aka Jamie - I met this dude at college and he stuck me as the kind of guy that would live in his parents basement hidden away. From that day on he was ‘Basement Boy’!
Horseface aka Nicola - This one was real simple. I also met her during my college years.
Im sure theres more. I never realised how many nicknames I gave people until this thread popped up!
(ahem) Cockman, a bloke I see nearly every morning on my way to work. A respectable looking chap who always wears tight-fitting, white trousers which do nothing to hide the outline of his genitals.
Not that I’m deliberately looking …
Hey, we can’t help the size of our breasts. If she’s dressed appropriately, consider this me virtually slapping you.
If she’s showing them off, then carry on.
The Drug Dealing Milk Drinkers: This couple drove me batty. They lived in an apartment in our building. One of them, usually the husband, would head out, saying to the wife “I’m running out to get some milk!” Which is normal enough. But then they would have a long conversation about it, while one of them was standing on the landing right outside the door to our apartment. “Should I get a quart or a half gallon?” “I think just a quart, but could you also pick up some half-and-half?” “No problem … do we need more coffee as well?”
- Why are you having this conversation at all?
- If you need to have it, why don’t you have it in your home, before the shopper is halfway down the hall and DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF OUR DOOR? It was as loud as if they were having this conversation in our living room.
Frequency was also an issue. This conversation would sometimes happen several times in a single evening. I decided that “milk” was a euphemism for going out to buy or sell drugs … because why else would you repeatedly do it more than once a night?
Other than that, there wasn’t anything else that made me think they were drug dealers, but I think it was enough. It was certainly annoying.