Chapter 3: The Quack-Off

The man opened up. He was wearing giant boxer shorts, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his chest sagging, eyes suspicious.

He looked like every sitcom dad mashed into one: grumpy, half-dressed, and annoyed before I’d even said a word. The hallway reeked of old smoke and takeout. My palms were slick with sweat, but I squared my shoulders and met his glare.

He looked me up and down. "What do you want?"

His voice was gravelly, but not in a neighborly way—more like he was daring me to say the wrong thing so he could toss me out. I hesitated, then plowed ahead.

First, I complimented him on their marital passion and praised his stamina. Then, I tactfully suggested that I really didn’t want to listen to the creation of their second child from start to finish, so could they please keep it down.

I tried to be diplomatic, tossing in a half-hearted joke about their energy. I thought flattery might soften the blow. Instead, he just glared harder, like I’d insulted his dog.

His eyes widened. "What’s next, you gonna tell me how to breathe? Now you want to run my bedroom too?"

He spat it like a challenge—loud, righteous, and totally unreasonable. I almost snorted. Only in Ohio could someone go from zero to martyr in under ten seconds.

From there, we had a full and frank exchange of views on family ethics and physical health.

The conversation spiraled. He accused me of being jealous, called me a prude, and then took it personal. I tried to stay cool, but his attitude made it impossible.

He expressed concern for my mental health. I offered some pointers on his moral standards.

It got heated, fast. We traded barbs, each one sharper than the last, until it felt less like a neighborly chat and more like a roast at a dive bar.

Then he started fantasizing about my female relatives in ways that were, let’s say, wildly inappropriate.

He took it to a place that made my skin crawl—way past the line of decency. My fists clenched at my sides, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. I could feel my jaw clench, the old fight-or-flight itch crawling up my spine.

I questioned his parentage, offering several likely candidates—old man Jenkins next door, some random guy, maybe even the neighbor’s dog—and hoped he’d cooperate and confirm soon.

I fired back with a smile, tossing out a string of sarcastic suggestions about who might’ve really been his dad. The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

Unexpectedly, he puffed up like a bulldog ready to bite, rolling up his sleeves, ready to fight.

His hands balled into fists, and for a split second, I wondered if I should’ve backed off. But adrenaline was pounding through my veins, and I was way too tired to care.

I was thrilled—finally, my lucky day!

After weeks of passive-aggressive hell, I welcomed the chance to settle things the old-fashioned way. My heart raced, half with fear, half with excitement. Was it stupid? Absolutely. Did I care? Not even a little.

It felt like a brand-new Tesla was waving at me. I leaned in, chin up, practically daring him: "Go ahead, tough guy."

Right then, his wife rushed out of the bedroom, shoved him aside, and belted out in that gravelly, duck-call voice of hers: "Honey, don’t stoop to this lunatic’s level, quack."

She barreled out, hair wild, in a faded nightgown. Her voice was as raspy as ever, echoing in the hallway. She glared at both of us, then yanked him back inside with surprising strength.

They slammed the door, ending our little "friendly chat."

The slam rattled the entire floor. I stood there a moment, listening to the locks click into place, then shuffled back to my apartment, equal parts victorious and exhausted.