A woman tried to remain patient while her upstairs neighbor repeatedly tossed used tea bags onto her balcony. But after he dismissed her complaints with a laugh and repeated the behavior the very next morning, she realized that politely asking him to stop was no longer working.
My upstairs neighbor throws his used tea bags off his balcony twice a day, and they land on mine.
Usually around 7 a.m. in the morning and again around 9 p.m. in the evening.
You could practically set your clock by it.
The first time, I assumed it had been an accident.
I picked it up, carried it to the trash, and said nothing.
The following week, I found one sitting on a white bath towel I had hung outside to dry. It had left a brown circular mark right in the center, about the size of a coffee cup.
So I went upstairs and knocked on 4B, figuring I could handle it like a reasonable adult.
“Oh, no. Was that me?”
“It’s been about six of them now.”
“I’m really sorry. I’m half asleep in the morning. I just flick it over the railing without thinking.”
He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
He apologized, said it wouldn’t happen again, and I went back downstairs wondering if I had made a bigger deal out of it than necessary.
The very next morning, another one came over.
I let three more weeks pass because I’ve lived in this building for eleven years, and I have never been the person who complains about every little thing.
Then one of the bags landed directly on the cushion of my chair.
It stayed there long enough to soak through the fabric.
That was when I went upstairs again.
“You’re still doing it.”
“It’s a tea bag.”
“It leaves stains. I already had to throw away a towel, and now I’ve lost a cushion cover.”
He leaned against his door frame and stared at me for a moment.
“You live underneath. That’s how buildings work.”
Then he laughed.
“You’re lucky it’s tea bags and not something else.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying. You should be glad it’s tea.”
Then he closed the door.
I stood there on the landing for a moment.
Eleven years in this building.
I had watched people’s cats. I had accepted packages for him throughout the entire previous winter.
And I understood exactly what he wanted.
He wanted me standing on a landing at nine at night, yelling about tea bags, so that afterward he could tell everyone about the woman downstairs who had completely lost her temper over something so insignificant.
So I gave him one final opportunity.
I decided that if nothing came over the railing the following morning, I would forget about the whole thing.
At 7:04 a.m., the tea bag came flying over.
It landed beside my plant pots, just as it always did.
I stood there in my robe staring at it for a long time.
By the time I finished my coffee, I already knew what I was going to do.
It took me one afternoon.
The next morning, I was sitting outside on my balcony before seven, quietly drinking my coffee.
I was simply waiting for him to come outside with his tea.
At 7:02 a.m., I heard his sliding balcony door open.
Then I heard footsteps moving across the floor above me.
A moment later came the faint sound of a chair scraping.
I took another sip of coffee.
At 7:04 a.m., something dark appeared above the railing.
The tea bag dropped.
But instead of landing on my balcony, it struck the clear plastic panel I had installed over the section where most of his little gifts normally landed.
Tap.
The bag slid down the angled surface and dropped neatly into the shallow tray I had fixed underneath it.
I smiled.
“Morning.”
There was no response.
Then Greg’s head appeared above the railing.
He looked down at me.
Then he looked at the panel.
“What the hell is that?”
“My new tea-bag catcher.”
“What?”
I pointed toward the tray.
“Seems to work pretty well.”
He leaned farther over the railing.
“You built that because of a tea bag?”
“No. I built it because of 43 of them.”
His expression changed.
“You’re counting them?”
“I started counting after our first conversation.”
“That’s insane.”
“Throwing garbage onto somebody else’s balcony twice a day is pretty strange too.”
“It’s tea.”
“Yes, Greg. We’ve already established that.”
He disappeared from view.
A few seconds later, his balcony door slammed shut.
I calmly finished my coffee.
The panel itself wasn’t anything fancy.
I bought a clear sheet, a lightweight frame, and several brackets that didn’t require me to drill into the outside wall.
Before putting anything up, I checked the building rules.
Twice.
Everything stayed inside my balcony area.
Nothing extended above his floor.
Nothing interfered with anyone’s view.
And if Greg simply stopped throwing things over his railing, the panel would have no reason to exist.
That evening, I went outside again.
At 9:06 p.m., I heard his balcony door open.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
For one wonderful second, I thought my ridiculous little invention had actually solved the problem.
Then another tea bag sailed around the edge of the panel and dropped straight into my biggest plant pot.
I stared at it.
Then I looked upward.
Greg’s balcony door slid shut.
That was the moment I stopped asking myself whether the tea bags had really been accidents.
He had aimed that one.
I pulled out my phone and photographed the bag exactly where it had landed.
Then I took another picture showing the panel beside it.
The next morning, another tea bag landed beyond the opposite side.
I photographed it.
That evening, one struck the glass balcony door.
Another photo.
By the following morning, I had four pictures showing tea bags in places they had never landed before.
Apparently, once I had made it difficult for Greg to simply drop his garbage straight down, he decided to start working on his aim.
What he didn’t understand was that he was actually making things easier for me.
Until then, he could have claimed that he was careless.
Now he was creating evidence that he was doing it deliberately.
I made a folder on my phone and put every photograph I had taken during the previous weeks into it.
The stained towel.
The damaged cushion cover.
The tea bags that had landed beside my plants.
The newer ones being thrown around the panel.
I added the dates and approximate times.
Then I sent myself an email describing both conversations I had already had with him while the details were still fresh in my mind.
I didn’t contact management yet.
I wanted to see what Greg would do next.
I didn’t have to wait very long.
Saturday morning, someone knocked on my door.
When I opened it, Greg was standing there in sweatpants with his arms crossed.
“Take that thing down.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He gestured toward the back of my apartment.
“That plastic thing. Take it down.”
“Why?”
“It looks ridiculous.”
“From where?”
“What?”
“You can’t even see it unless you’re leaning over my balcony.”
“People can see it from outside.”
“Then I suppose they’ll assume I’m dealing with a problem involving falling objects.”
His expression tightened.
“You can’t just install things on the building.”
“I checked the rules.”
“With who?”
“The building rules.”
“That’s not a person.”
“No, but they’re surprisingly informative.”
“You’re doing all this over tea bags.”
“No. I’m doing this because I asked you to stop and you didn’t.”
“I told you. I don’t think about it.”
“Interesting.”
“What?”
“You’ve suddenly become very accurate at throwing them around the panel for someone who doesn’t think about it.”
His expression changed.
“Maybe that’s where they fall.”
“They never fell there before.”
He shrugged.
“Fine. I’ll just throw them farther.”
For a moment, neither of us said anything.
Then a voice behind him spoke.
“That’s probably not going to help your argument.”
Greg turned around.
Mrs. Alvarez from across the hall was standing beside her apartment door, a reusable shopping bag hanging from one shoulder.
Apparently, she had arrived home at exactly the right time.
Greg looked at her.
Then he looked back at me.
“I was joking.”
Mrs. Alvarez raised one eyebrow.
“It didn’t sound very funny.”
Greg turned toward me again.
“Just take the stupid thing down.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he turned around and walked upstairs.
Mrs. Alvarez waited until his footsteps had disappeared.
“Does he really throw tea bags down there every day?”
“Twice.”
“Every day?”
“Pretty much.”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“I’ve been trying to figure that out for a month.”
She glanced toward the stairs.
“Let me know if you need me to tell anyone what I just heard.”
That was the moment my little plan became much easier.
“Actually,” I said, “I might.”
Our building had a residents’ meeting the following Wednesday.
Normally, I skipped those meetings unless something important was being discussed.
That week, I showed up ten minutes early.
I brought a folder.
Inside were printed photographs, copies of the replacement costs for the towel and cushion cover, and a written timeline of everything that had happened.
I brought one other thing too.
A clear container.
Inside it were the tea bags I had collected from the tray and the balcony over the previous days, after letting them dry.
I wasn’t planning to make some dramatic scene by dumping them onto the table.
I wasn’t trying to turn myself into the star of some courtroom performance.
I simply wanted the thing Greg had repeatedly described as insignificant to become something everyone could actually see.
A few minutes later, Greg arrived.
His eyes immediately went to the container.
“What is that?”
I smiled.
“You know what it is.”
“You kept them?”
“You kept giving them to me.”
Mrs. Alvarez covered a smile.
Greg sat down.
When it was my turn to speak, I kept things straightforward.
I explained that used tea bags had been coming from the balcony directly above mine twice a day for several weeks.
I explained that I had spoken to Greg twice.
Then I showed everyone the photographs.
The building manager, Mr. Lewis, studied the picture of my towel.
“That came from upstairs?”
“Yes.”
Greg leaned forward.
“It’s a tea bag.”
Mr. Lewis looked at him.
“It’s still your garbage.”
“Garbage is a little dramatic.”
“What would you call something you’ve finished using and thrown away?”
Greg had nothing to say to that.
I showed them the photograph of the damaged cushion cover.
Then I showed them the pictures I had taken after putting up the panel.
Mr. Lewis frowned.
“Why are these landing farther out?”
I looked at Greg.
He shifted in his chair.
“They fall where they fall.”
I pushed another photograph across the table.
“For weeks, they landed almost directly below his railing. After I put up the panel, they started landing on both sides of it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Greg said.
Mrs. Alvarez spoke from two seats away.
“I heard him tell her he’d throw them farther.”
Greg turned toward her.
“I was joking.”
“You didn’t sound like you were joking,” she said.
Mr. Lewis looked directly at Greg.
“Did you say that?”
Greg sighed.
“This whole thing has gotten completely out of proportion.”
“Did you say it?”
“Yes, but I was frustrated.”
Mr. Lewis leaned back.
“Then this isn’t really about accidentally dropping something anymore.”
For the first time since I had knocked on Greg’s door weeks earlier, he had no response.
The building rules were clear.
Residents were not allowed to throw objects, liquids, cigarette butts, food waste, or anything else from their balconies.
Mr. Lewis explained that the rule wasn’t only about preventing stains or damage to someone else’s furniture.
Something thrown from an upper floor could hit a person below.
Greg made one final attempt.
“They’re wet tea bags, not bricks.”
Mr. Lewis nodded.
“And the rule doesn’t say residents are allowed to throw things as long as they’re soft.”
I almost smiled.
Greg didn’t.
He received a formal written warning.
He was also informed that another documented incident could result in additional action under the building rules.
Then Mr. Lewis asked about the things I had lost.
I showed him the amount I had spent replacing the towel and cushion cover.
It wasn’t a huge amount.
That wasn’t really the point.
Greg looked at the paper.
“You seriously want me to pay for that?”
“You ruined them.”
“The towel could’ve been washed.”
“I tried.”
“It’s a stain.”
“On my property.”
Mr. Lewis stepped in before the conversation could start going in circles.
“You’ll reimburse her.”
Greg leaned back in his chair.
He looked furious.
Then something happened that I hadn’t expected.
Greg had recently asked for permission to install privacy screening around his balcony.
Mr. Lewis had apparently been reviewing that request.
He closed the paperwork in front of him.
“For now, I’m not approving additional balcony fixtures while there’s an active warning concerning your use of that balcony.”
Greg stared at him.
“You’re denying it because of tea?”
“I’m postponing it because you’ve admitted deliberately throwing items from your balcony after another resident asked you to stop.”
That finally left Greg silent.
The meeting finished about twenty minutes later.
I gathered up my photographs and put them back into the folder.
Greg left before I did.
I assumed that was the end of everything.
It wasn’t.
The next afternoon, Greg stopped me near the mailboxes.
“You could’ve just asked me to stop.”
For a second, I honestly wondered whether I had heard him correctly.
“I did.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t.”
“You didn’t have to involve management.”
“I asked you twice.”
“It was a tea bag.”
“And you were asked to stop throwing them.”
He glanced toward the lobby doors.
“You made me look like an idiot over tea.”
I shook my head.
“No. I showed them what you were doing. You handled the rest yourself.”
His face became red.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
And I meant it.
I hadn’t enjoyed losing a towel.
I hadn’t enjoyed having to replace a cushion cover.
I hadn’t enjoyed checking my chair before sitting down because I never knew what might have landed on it.
But more than anything, I hadn’t enjoyed being told that because my apartment was underneath his, I should simply accept whatever came flying over his railing.
“I wanted you to stop,” I said. “That’s all.”
He looked away.
Then he walked upstairs without saying anything else.
The next morning, I woke up at 6:55 a.m.
I made my coffee.
At 6:58 a.m., I carried it onto the balcony and sat down.
Seven o’clock.
Nothing.
7:02 a.m.
Still nothing.
At 7:04 a.m., I heard Greg’s balcony door slide open.
I waited.
Footsteps crossed the floor above me.
I looked toward the clear panel.
Nothing fell.
A few seconds later, his door closed again.
I smiled into my coffee.
That evening, I went outside shortly before nine.
Once again, I heard him moving around above me.
Once again, nothing came over the railing.
The following morning was exactly the same.
After four days, I removed the panel.
My balcony looked normal again.
My plants were safe.
My new cushion cover stayed clean.
More importantly, I no longer found myself looking upward every time I heard his balcony door open.
A week later, someone buzzed my apartment.
It was a delivery driver.
“I’ve got a package for 4B. No one’s answering. Do you mind taking it?”
For a second, my old habit almost made me say yes.
I had signed for Greg’s packages throughout the previous winter.
Sometimes two or three of them arrived in a single week.
Then I remembered what he had told me.
“You live underneath. That’s how buildings work.”
“Sorry,” I said. “He’ll have to collect it himself.”
“No problem.”
I didn’t think about it again.
That evening, I ran into Greg in the hallway.
“They said you wouldn’t take my package.”
“That’s right.”
He frowned.
“You always used to.”
“I did.”
“So now you’re refusing my deliveries too?”
“I’m not refusing anything. Your deliveries aren’t my responsibility.”
He stared at me.
I unlocked my apartment door.
Before I went inside, I looked back at him.
“I used to do favors for a neighbor who respected my home.”
For once, Greg had absolutely nothing to say.
I went inside and closed the door.
The funny thing is, I never wanted a feud.
I still don’t.
If Greg asks me to hold the elevator, I’ll hold it.
If the fire alarm goes off, I’ll knock on his door just like I would for anyone else.
But I finally understood something I had spent eleven years avoiding.
Being a good neighbor doesn’t mean putting up with bad behavior just because you want to keep things peaceful.
Sometimes, constantly keeping the peace only teaches another person that you’ll tolerate whatever they decide to do.
Greg expected me to lose my temper.
Instead, I kept the receipts.
I took pictures.
I learned the rules.
And I let his own behavior tell the rest of the story.
The following Saturday, I sat outside with my coffee at 7:04 a.m.
Nothing came over the railing.
No wet tea bag.
No brown stain.
Just my plants, my chair, and a balcony that finally felt like mine again.
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