And yet, I feel bad

One of my neighbors has a hard time with boundaries. I appreciate that the man at the end of the hall must be lonely.  He is on disability, always wears a brace on his leg, and has some and some form of Tourette syndrome that causes him to yell loudly when he's alone. (I can hear him swearing up a storm when I'm waiting for the elevator. The doors open and he comes out grinning, as though nothing was amiss.)

While I certainly don't seek him out, I'm always pleasant whenever we meet. His questions are always annoying and nosy ("Where are you going?" "What's in that big Target bag?" "What's on that pizza?") but harmless. He's obsessed with our building's Amazon deliveries. He brings our packages from the lobby up to our front doors, which would be nice except he bangs on the door and expects a thank you ... and a conversation. He also bangs on my door frequently to discuss condo association business because I'm on the Board. 

I try to be nice but he's making it impossible. Last month, there was the day when, after I took my packages, he blocked me from closing my front door so we could chat longer. I could feel his eyes surveying my living room. It was creepy and intrusive.

This week I yelled at him. Yes, I yelled at a lonely man with a disability.

I have a rash. Don't worry, I won't tell you about it, but it's not somewhere you can see when I'm in my bathing suit. I had just applied the (expensive) cream when my neighbor began banging on my door.

I had the TV on, so he knew I was home. I thought I could brazen it out, but no, he kept pounding. I peered at him through the peep hole. What if he was in some distress? When he appeared fine, I resolved to ignore him.

He wouldn't be ignored. Pounding ... and pounding ... Perhaps hearing me approach the peep hole made him more determined. 

"I. AM. COMING!" I shouted, smearing the (expensive) cream as I reached for clothing.

He wanted to know what he should do about the Amazon package in the lobby. It was delivered here by mistake.

"I don't know," I said tightly, trying not to scream.

"Have you been downstairs? Have you seen it?"

"No. I know nothing about it. And I am not on call 24/7. If I don't answer my door, it means I'm busy."

"Were you eating or something?"

"No, I was getting in the shower." I lied, determined to keep at least my rash private. "But it doesn't matter! I'm not an employee! I don't have to be always available!"

"I'm so sorry." He looked stricken. He extended his hand for a fist bump but I refused it. 

"OK, fine," I snapped, and closed the door.

I know that he has mistaken my mere politeness for a willingness to be his sidekick, so I had to be harsh. I had to set boundaries.

But his face! He looked like I'd slapped him.

 Photo by Mario Heller on Unsplash