#17 Hello My Life

My upstairs neighbor usually lives on some outcropped island adjacent to Hanoi. I believe he does this for most of the year. Then he has some job or emotional requirement committing him to return to the fifth floor of our building for about one month, annually.  Sometimes we see him in the elevator, his jaw is set very tightly and when we bid him good morning his eyes shiver like an 18 wheeler’s tires speeding down Second Avenue, hitting the metal covers of the interminable train construction. He sort of can push out a weak hello in his deep, unidentifiable accent. I know him by sight, and that is pretty much it.

It is nice having an upstairs neighbor who is gone for long stretches of time, if only for keeping things quiet. Otherwise, I enjoy living in an apartment building with 29 units and our building has an especially nice communal feel. My neighbors are very friendly and I feel safe and happy being part of this building. This is home sweet home in most every way.

However, when Willard (I will call him) returns there is a change in the peaceful serenity which inhabits our home. Aside from the non-stop Second Avenue Subway Construction sound pollution- because we have become so accustom to it, now washes over us like Enya’s Best Of album- there is freaking disruption.

Right now, The Girl From Impanema is blasting. Right over my head. I imagine Willard's skinny frame naked (why not?) waltzing across his carpet-less floor with his imaginary dance partner. The needle on the record is replaced over and over on the same song.  Yes, I said record.

Over and freaking over again.

Over and freaking over again.

The bass thumping of this song is really heavy and feels like someone with a lead foot is tapping along to the beat. The male vocal portion of the song has a strong bass sound as well and the feathery quality is lost completely as it migrates from Willard’s floor to my ceiling. The female vocal ends up sounding a little like my starving cat while I open a can of tuna. The saxophone solo just sounds like a squeaky fart.  Exactly the kind that makes kids and adults burst out laughing. Thank god, without the smell!

I have to put in my blue earplugs and pray that his little musical OCD session will end soon.

Otherwise, he is totally harmless. Except when mysteriously his toilet overflows and floods our bathroom. This is a mystery because it happens when he's in Timbuktu-sylvania, and his water is presumably turned off.

Otherwise he is fine.