The 4AM Doorbell Olympics: How to Lose Sleep and Alienate Neighbors

Adulthood is mostly about ignoring things that make noise.

4:03 AM

The first ring is always the worst. It’s 4:03 a.m. and the doorbell slices through the Fremont silence like a toddler with a kazoo at a funeral. I’m wide awake, naturally, because sleep is for people with normal circadian rhythms and fewer regrets. I’m vertical—or at least diagonal—on my couch, scrolling through some Reddit thread about whether or not penguins have knees, and the doorbell hits like a jump scare in a movie you forgot you were watching.

Then it rings again. And again. Marcus¹. Of course, it’s fucking Marcus.

The Marcus Problem

Here’s the thing about Marcus: I have extremely valid reasons to hate him. Not just “he’s kind of annoying” hate or “he chews with his mouth open” hate, but like, actual justifiable loathing. The man is a pathological liar. And—this is the kicker—he stole my Nintendo Switch. I know this because he BRAGGED ABOUT IT to a mutual friend he didn’t know I knew. Like, who does that? Who steals someone’s Switch and then treats it like a funny anecdote at parties? (Answer: sociopaths and people who peaked in high school. Marcus is both.)

So logically, morally—fuck, spiritually—I should not answer this door. I should let him ring until his finger falls off, the sun comes up, or the neighbors finally call the cops. But here I am, frozen on my couch like a deer in headlights… if the deer was also having an existential crisis about whether it’s rude to ignore someone.

My phone glows on the coffee table. I could text him. I could tell him to fuck off. I could block him and pretend this never happened. But I don’t. I just sit there, heart pounding, brain spinning through every possible scenario like I’m running disaster simulations. What if he’s hurt? What if it’s a real emergency? What if—and here’s where my therapist would start taking notes—what if I’m the only person who can help?

(Narrator: Ernie is not the only person who can help. He is, in fact, the least qualified person, emotionally speaking, to help Marcus with anything.)

Why I’m Like This

My default setting is to answer. Always has been. Even when I shouldn’t. Even when every fiber of my being is screaming, “This is a trap!” Like, I’m the guy who keeps spare toothbrushes for other people’s emergencies. The guy who once let a friend crash on my couch for “just a night” and ended up hosting a six-week pop-up rehab facility.

If I had a therapist, he would call it “codependency with a side of martyr complex.” I call it “being a good person,” which apparently is code for “terrible boundaries.”

But Marcus stole my Switch. He LIED about stealing my Switch. And then he laughed about it like it was some Ocean’s Eleven shit instead of just regular theft. So why am I even considering opening this door?

Because somewhere in my broken little brain, I’ve convinced myself that being a good host—or a good person, or just polite—means being available. Even to people who’ve proven they don’t deserve it. It’s like I’m running on some outdated operating system where “nice” equals “doormat” and “boundaries” is a glitch that hasn’t been patched yet.

So I sit there, paralyzed, while the doorbell rings and rings. And for the first time, I don’t move. Not because I’ve suddenly developed a healthy sense of self-preservation, but because I’m literally too frozen to function. Progress, right? (My therapist is going to love this; just kidding, I can’t afford one. Joke’s on everyone!)

How We Got Here

I used to think adulthood was about having answers. Now I think it’s about knowing which questions to ignore—and which doorbells to leave unanswered at 4AM.

My parents would never have tolerated this shit. My mom once threatened to call the cops on a door-to-door salesman who rang during dinner. (“No respect,” she muttered, stabbing her stir-fry with the kind of fury usually reserved for people who cut in line at Costco.) They had walls, both literal and metaphorical. They understood that your home is your castle and 4AM is sacred ground.

But me? I grew up in the era of “always on.” AIM away messages that guilt-trip you for being away. Text messages that demanded immediate responses. Slack notifications that made you feel like a bad employee if you weren’t available at 11PM on a Sunday. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that every ping, every knock, every 4AM doorbell was a test of my worth. If I didn’t answer, who would?

(Spoiler: literally anyone else. Or, more likely, no one, because most people have boundaries and also the good sense not to befriend people who steal their gaming consoles.)

There’s a generational thing here that I’m still unpacking. My parents built walls; I built open floor plans. They prized privacy; I prize availability—until suddenly I don’t, and then I’m frozen on a couch at 4AM trying to logic my way out of basic human decency toward someone who has objectively wronged me.

Maybe this is what growing up looks like for people like me: learning that not every crisis is my responsibility. Learning that sometimes the person at the door is someone who stole from you and laughed about it, and you don’t owe them shit. Not your time, not your couch, not even a “sorry, can’t help right now” text.

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So I didn’t answer the door. I sat there, wide awake, oscillating between pride and the creeping sensation that I’m a terrible person for not checking if Marcus was okay. (He was fine, by the way. I know this because he texted me at 2PM the next day with “sorry bro, wild night lol.” No apology for the doorbell. No acknowledgment that 4AM is a war crime hour. Just “lol.”)

And here’s the thing: nobody died.

The world didn’t end.

Marcus, presumably, found another couch or another sucker or maybe just wandered off into the Bay Area night to become someone else’s problem for once. I stayed on my couch, still not sleeping, but also not dealing with Marcus’ bullshit, which feels like a win, even if it’s the smallest, most pathetic win imaginable.

I used to think that being a good person meant always being available. Like my value was measured in how quickly I could respond to someone else’s crisis—bonus points if it wasn’t even my crisis to begin with, and extra credit if the person actively wronged me first. But the older I get, the more I realize that half the time, the only thing standing between me and a full-blown meltdown is a locked door and the courage to stay frozen on the couch.

There’s a weird pride in not engaging. It’s not the kind of pride you can brag about at brunch (“Guess who has two thumbs and didn’t answer the door for the guy who stole his Nintendo Switch at 4AM?”), but it’s real. It’s the pride of someone who’s finally—slowly, painfully—learning that not every knock is an invitation, and not every story needs me in it.

Sometimes the best plot twist is the one where you just…sit there and do nothing.

I know, I know—this is the part where I’m supposed to tie it all up with a bow and say something profound about boundaries and self-care and the slow, agonizing process of becoming a Functional Adult™. But honestly? I’m still figuring it out.

I still default to answering.

I still feel guilty for not answering.

I’m learning my lessons now, but it’s like learning to swim by almost drowning repeatedly—technically effective, but there’s probably a better way.

So here’s to the small wins: the unanswered doorbells, the unreturned texts from people who wronged you, the nights when you choose yourself over someone else’s chaos, even if you’re doing it by accident because you’re too frozen to move. It’s not heroic. It’s not even particularly healthy. But it’s something.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to change my locks and draft a text I’ll probably never send: “Hey Marcus, remember when you stole my Switch? Yeah. That’s why I didn’t answer the door. Also, fuck you.”

(I won’t send it. But it’s nice to imagine.)

1. The name has been changed to avoid a further confrontation at 4:00am with said individual. Wait, that goes against everything I just talked about, doesn’t it? Goddamnit.