by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

I noticed the red and blue lights flashing out front, around 10pm three weeks ago. The window of my office frames a tranquil, vaguely Japanese vista, a montage of plants, cut bamboo and bits of intricate masonry that only imperfectly screens me from the street.

Then, when I looked up from my work, and for several hours previously, that window was closed, not against the cool of the night, but in an attempt to dampen the ranchero music that was blaring from the front yard of my neighbor across the street, a largely failed attempt.

My "housemate" in her own apartment upstairs, having suffered these musical assaults several times a week for over five years is philosophical about the situation. She insists that our offensive neighbor, F., as a lonely alcoholic, is at once incapable of caring about other people and deserving of our compassion. I'm not sure that I agree with the conjoining of her conclusions, but she has wisely advised me, "Don't make yourself sick over it."

Since taking occupancy in July, I've tried various approaches. I have friendship in the hope that comaraderie might lead to more consideration on his part. He is not an uninteresting character. Having lived in Chicago for 30 years, his English is very good and he enjoys using it with me. Maybe our friendship has worked a little. Maybe not.

As F.'s conversation sometimes references God, I've tried explaining that spiritually, biblically, it is important to get along with your neighbors. At this, angry at the world, he spat out, "They stole my dog. They stole my cat. They stole my rooster. Why should I be nice to them?" F.'s musical assaults are a belligerent middle finger towards the neighborhood, and beyond that, at life itself.

I've tried a medical approach, pointing out to him (more than once) that prolonged exposure to that level of sound will ruin his hearing. At this F. agrees, telling me that the process has already begun. It's hard to befriend, or to reason with, someone who is drinking themself to death.

These sonic violations are bad enough during the afternoons (staying up late, he is rarely visible before 2pm). Far worse, insufferably so, and not infrequently they continue past midnight. Then, I go to sleep behind the door of my back bedroom, with my ears plugged. But my upstairs housemate, much more of a night owl, and with her bedroom at the front of her apartment, tells me that not infrequently the music continues until 2 or 3am.

But by far the worst, the loudest of it, is when F. is outside working in his yard or sitting there drinking beer, engaging neighbors passing by in brief exchanges. Although, boisterously forward, the man is crazy, no one wants much of anything to do with him.

The worst of the worst is when, drunker than usual, he brings the speaker outside with him, pointing it right at my office window. That was the case, had been the case for four or five hours, at 10pm that night when the red and blue lights started flashing in my window.

Ranchero is party music, high energy, bursting with emotion, the vocalist regularly shouting out in wordless exuberance what up north are called "hoots and hollers." Thankfully, my Spanish is not good enough so that I have to understand the words of the songs. But even without the further distraction of comprehension, hours of party music without the party is tortuous.

Then, it is profoundly bizarre and pathetic to witness a lonely drunk, outside, surrounded by empty beer cans littering the ground, sitting in a sonic swirl of simulated celebration.

I know that Mexico is noisey, that the country is at full volume. But you don't expect it to be right across the street, at least not regularly.

I don't call the authorities myself because I am afraid that my accent will identify me, and that the official who responds might tell F., "Some gringo complained."

Also, getting the authorities involved is not my style. Even in the States, calling the cops is almost always a mistake. The other party might be at fault, but you are also guilty, guilty of not being able to handle your own affairs.

I take to heart Bob Dylan's admonition regarding Mexican police: "When you're lost in Juarez... If you're looking to get silly / you better go back to from where it is you came / because the cops they don't need you / and man they expect the same."

However, three weeks ago at 10pm, those flashing blue and red lights, and the fact that F.'s music was suddenly switched off, told me that someone had called the authorities. But, to my great disappointment, no doubt accepting a bribe, five minutes after they left, F.'s music was blaring again.

Then, to my inexpressible delight, that night, whoever called must have called again because they came back. And this time they issued my noisy neighbor a fine for $10,880 pesos. F. came back from his 30 years in the States with a sizeable bankroll. But even so, that's a lot of money for one night's fun.

After that, for a couple of weeks, F. behaved himself, playing his music not so often, so long nor so loudly. In the last ten days, things have deteriorated a bit. But flush with our recent triumph, sensing victory near, and now formed into a league, we neighbors have summoned the authorities several times over offenses which we earlier would have endured. When we have, three times, the police or Ecología or both arrive, but the noise stops only for the duration of their visit. Whether or not they accept a bribe, they have not issued another fine. And I think it will take the loss of at least another $11,000 pesos before F. sees the light.

His brain pickled by alcohol, the day after one of his recent debauches, F. told me, "I was really drunk. I drank two liters of beer and then three six packs. I am an asshole." As they say in New Orleans, "true that." Sometimes he really is.