There’s this Dostoyevsky quote I think of a lot that goes, “Man gets used to everything, the scoundrel.”

I think of it because I can have, what some close to me have labeled, “a high tolerance for chaos.”

It’s true.

So it’s weird when things set me off.

Like my neighbor, right now, as I’m writing this.

He vacuums his car a lot. The trunk, it would appear, mostly.

Sometimes he hoses it out, too.

The spare tire is in and out, in and out.

It’s on the porch then it’s in the car then it’s on the back porch then it’s in the car.

And then it’s the weekend he’s vacuuming and hosing, which…

He’s a murderer, right? Or a contract killer.

The music is too happy for him to be a Raskolnikov.

This guy is tortured by nothing. He is torturing me.

Not even specifically me.

Just - he feels very entitled to his weekly trunk vacuum and floor hosing, set to the tune of a very loud radio.

Who does this?

My neighbor does.

It’s hard to believe the trunk would be spotless, but he works so hard at it that I almost want it to be. I bet you could eat off it. Or perform a minor surgery there, without questioning why we’d do that in the trunk of a 10-year-old SUV.

The sheer amount of effort. I wonder what I work that hard on.

And how does he get it so clean? Great question. It’s got a fabric liner. I know it, and not because I’ve seen it up close, but because we have the same car, different model year. I have mats to take out and hose off. This guy goes straight into it with the hose like a madman.

I’ve never seen anything like it. Maybe it washes evidence away because he’s practiced. Because he’s disciplined. I’m starting to look up to the guy. Almost.

So when I disappear because I wrote this note, if I’ve mysteriously vanished, check my neighbor’s trunk.

If there’s no clue there, check the trash. If there’s no vacuumed evidence, try the gutter down the street. There’ll be a few strands of my hair in there. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know to check the drain.

My murder will be resolved, thanks to you, thanks to that gutter.

Meanwhile, I am very much alive, and very much trying to complete a couple of thoughts.

What’s not helping is the blaring music, the sound of the vacuum, or the nagging feeling that it’s too early to have a drink. I am committed to keeping this writing streak alive. And I too am practiced. I too am disciplined.

I am feeling all scoundrel and wondering if Dostoyevsky would like to rent our house until this neighbor’s lease is up.

But. I’ll get used to it. My damn neighbor certainly is.

The music could be worse. At least it’s something you could dance to.

There are words to write.