[Originally posted to the Other INTP List]

Last night, shortly before going to bed, I heard a delighted squeal coming from up the street.

"Oh my GOD!"

I could picture a girl of about my age jumping up and down, horribly excited at something stupid. I could picture dogs all around the neighborhood twisting and squirming in pain as the already high pitch rose higher and higher. She could've just been told that she'd found the cure to cancer, for all I knew. No matter. The cure for cancer was clearly a shallow endeavor if it necessitated such squealing.

"The problem with this neighborhood," said my husband as we were going to bed, "is that you hear all kinds of noises and you can't tell if someone's getting murdered or if they just dropped their mocha."

A couple of days ago, there was screeching of brakes and the unmistakable bang of a car crash at the corner. "Sucks to be that guy," I muttered, not even looking away from the monitor, not skipping a beat in my typing. My husband and his friend went to the window and saw that it didn't look serious and that someone else had called the cops. Later, I was astonished at my lack of caring.

People always mention that case of a girl who was murdered within earshot of all the neighbors. In New York, wasn't it? Nobody did anything about it—they ignored it, it was Someone Else's Problem. But this, of course, is New York, don't you see. People there are jaded and soulless in New York. New York is a Big City, with alleys and grime and public transportation. People get murdered by their neighbor's window there all the time. It's a risk you take, you see, when you live in New York. In fact, they probably make you murder a couple of people of your own before you're allowed into the city. No, we are different. What kind of a person just sits by and says "Sucks to be that guy" without even looking away from what they're doing when they hear a noise that clearly indicates someone's in trouble? Only a New Yorker.

Because of our proximity to the frat houses we get all kinds of odd noises. Someone screaming about burritos, less-than-sober renderings of George Michael songs, grunting, squealing. If I'm woken up by them, I mumble curses and go back to sleep. If it was death-squealing, death-grunting (death-George Michael?), I would shoot up from the bed and run, no, fly to the phone and save someone's life, I tell myself before falling back asleep.