By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations —changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/o OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at email@example.com.
I've lived in my condo for years without a peep from my light-industry neighbors on the other side of the wall—until your "environmentally supportive company" moved in next door, manufacturing and running your filtration pumps outside with the gentle drone of a floored Chevy big-block all hours of the night. I thought that was going to be the worst of it—until your employees started hammering and grinding metal outside my bedroom wall at dawn.
So I politely called and stopped by a couple of times to ask if we could compromise on your starting time. You said, "Sure, we'll take care of it," and we agreed on a time.
So the next time I was awakened from my slumber by your workers grinding on metal, I called and gently reminded you of our agreement. Your diplomatic response: you have no obligation to "accommodate me" and that you are going to do what it takes to meet your deadlines regardless of my comfort. That's just how it is, you said—you can't help that I've chosen to live there, and you hope this is the end of the issue.
It was not the end. My next phone call was to the city code- enforcement department. My new best friend there was pleased to let you know that you're violating multiple codes—and if you don't stop, the fines are going to pile up.
I'd never have called them if you weren't such a dick. But you thought I'd just go away. Guess who's going away now? I'm doing my share for the environment—mine—and getting you the hell out!