A while back, I lived in a small, run-down apartment building in a quiet neighborhood. My home was nothing fancy, but the rent was affordable, the area pleasant, and my job and most shopping were only a short walk away. So I was quite comfortable.
Then “Joe” moved into the apartment directly above me. There was nothing to worry about at first. My new neighbor wasn’t even around very often, although he was kind of noisy when he was. He played guitar a lot; I got the impression that maybe he was a musician who did a lot of traveling, and was just using this apartment as a home base.
Then, for some reason, Joe became a homebody. The noise level increased; Joe took to opening up all his windows and serenading the neighborhood, accompanied by guitar with amplifier. His behavior became erratic; he’d run up and down the stairs, yelling at no one in particular. He also had some problem keeping his clothing on, particularly shoes, which he tossed out on the sidewalk, and , one evening, danced in the backyard entirely naked. (On that occasion, someone called the police on him, who suggested that, if he wanted to dance naked outdoors, he should find a more secluded place.)
The noise irritated me, but I was otherwise only moderately concerned. I figured he was a holdover from the hippie era – although he seemed a little too young to to be a former Flower Child.
One day, I came home from work to find water pouring from the ceiling. I thought a pipe had broken, and called the landlord, who came to investigate. It turned out that Joe had blocked all the drains in his apartment, turned all the faucets on, then left. Shortly after that mess was cleaned up, Joe had a party. It was late one night, and I was awakened by loud conversation from upstairs and what sounded like furniture being thrown around. There were at least four or five different voices, including one female. I considered going up the stairs, knocking on the door, and asking them to keep it down, but wondered if that would be an entirely safe thing to do. So I didn’t.
The next day, I mentioned the incident to the folks in the house next door. Not only had they heard the ruckus, but they could see into the apartment. He had been alone, they said, throwing chairs around and speaking in different voices. There was no party going on, just Joe, ranting and tossing stuff around.
A week or so after that, Joe set the building on fire. I didn’t know anything was wrong until a lady who happened to be walking her dog, started pounding on doors and shouting that there was smoke coming out of an upstairs window. I put my cat into her traveling cage, grabbed my purse, and fled outside and across the street. Yup, there was smoke pouring out of Joe’s window, the fire truck arrived, the neighbors gathered to watch the show (some brought beer and potato chips), water sprayed from the fire hoses, the windows in Joe’s apartment shattered, flames billowed out, and I realized my home was gone.
Things could have been much worse. Everyone escaped without injury, including Joe. The building was uninhabitable, but, as the fire never reached the ground floor, those of us who lived in the lower apartments were able to recover some of our possessions. My next door neighbors kindly allowed both me and my cat to stay with them for a few days, until I could get things sorted out. Joe was hauled off to jail, and eventually did time for arson (and, I hope, received some psychiatric treatment). Other tenants stayed with friends. The residents of one apartment were out of town, and had a nasty surprise awaiting them when they returned. (I overheard part of their reaction, which was along the lines of “What the @#%^ !! Holy @#%^ it to @#$%^ !!!”)
Eventually, we learned some of Joe’s background. His girlfriend had broken up with him, but he kept pestering her, and had even set a fire to attract her attention. In order to get him out of her life, the girlfriend had found the apartment, paid for a year’s rent, and told him that the place was his, but he had to promise to leave her alone from now on. He evidently agreed to the deal. So that’s the reason the landlords didn’t evict him, even after the water incident – the rent was already paid.
That’s my fire story. I’m very grateful that no one was hurt; still, that’s an experience I wouldn’t want to repeat.
It was later determined to be some variation of “faulty wiring”.