Category: wigs

The Sheriff of Decibels:  The Man Who Heard Too Much

A Lesson in Consideration.

I once wrote about the Sheriff of Decibels, a neighbor from a high‑rise condominium where keeping to oneself was the unofficial building policy.  Everyone did keep to themselves, and life was blissfully uneventful, until the night he, Mr. Wigg, called to inform me that my television was “too loud” and preventing him from sleeping.

Now, I had been living at that condominium for years; he was living there long before I showed up on the scene.  So, this was a surprise out of nowhere.

That phone call became the overture to a recurring performance, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self‑appointed enforcer of silence.  After a few of these episodes, I began to wonder whether sound was truly traveling through the walls or whether he simply enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a well‑timed complaint.  After all, the room with my television didn’t even share a wall with his bedroom; it butted up against his butler’s pantry.  And I hadn’t turned on that television for months by this time.

The irony was rich: I could hear his television, too, but only when I passed his front door.  Talk shows, game shows, the full audio spectrum.  Yet it never occurred to me to call him and issue a noise citation.  I assumed he was just living his life, the way people do when they choose communal living over a cabin in the woods.

Then one afternoon, as I walked down the common hallway, his door cracked open an inch.  “Pssst!  I can hear sounds from your condo,” he whispered, as if delivering classified intelligence.

I turned to look through the sliver of darkness.  Only Mr. Wigg’s lips were visible, and the darkness behind him was black and infinite.  I told him flatly that nothing was playing and kept walking.  For a moment, I wondered if he stood in his butler’s pantry with a cup pressed to the wall, listening for enemy war plans.  The image made me laugh.

There’s a particular fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being lectured on etiquette by someone chewing with their mouth open.  You could point it out, but it would never land.

I concluded that the issue lay not with me but with his imagination, or his hearing aids, or him pressing his ear against our common wall.  Who knows?  I kept living my life at a normal volume, unbothered.

Then one day, everything came to light.  When my best friend was walking down the hallway coming back from the garbage room, he bumped into Mr. Wigg.  The spoke awhile, and the true of this “noise” matter was discovered.  It appeared that we and Mr. Wigg have the same brand and model of television.  Through the wonders of modern technology, the sounds from our television come through his speakers.  We have heard his television sound come through our speakers, too.  And what about our television turning off by itself?  Well, it also is apparent that his remote and our remote affect the other’s sets.

Therefore, isn’t it better to find the source of a problem before claiming someone of malfeasance?  It could all be an innocent technology glitch.  Mr. Wigg wouldn’t have been aggravated, and I wouldn’t think of the situation as silly.

 

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The Sheriff of Decibels, Mr. Wigg.

A Lesson in Neighbor Consideration.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, a Mr. Wigg, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume Mr. Wigg was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

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