April 1999 smoking jacket by Gregory Alkaitis-Carafelli |
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Bathtub of Pleasure
Apartment is not a dirty word, although I'm starting to think it
should be. The location: A once respectable (circa 1920) urban
brownstone, since carved up from a whole house into three apartments,
one per floor, and left to the slow death of endless rental tenants.
There were many reasons to immediately hand over a deposit check to
the landlord: the first floor had a rose garden out back, enormous
ceilings, wood floors, and seemingly friendly neighbors. But as I have
now finally realized, it all comes at a cost higher than what is set
down in black and white on the lease. My first clue something was not
as it should be was the offhand comment of a visiting neutral
observer: "Wow I see why you don't have a television -- sitting around
all day listening to the neighbors have sex is so much more
entertaining!"
The loud constant banging might be amusing to some at first, in the
same vein as saying "wiener" invariably gets a laugh out of
fourth-grade boys, but like the dripping faucet that never stops,
their incessant floorboard rattling has persisted until it now
inspires such rage I fear for the personal safety of those around me.
As if to grind the point home, faithful as a finely tuned Porsche the
neighbors have started up again, just now, up there, the Boy of the
Week preferring this time the kitchen as his venue for dispensing
pleasure. She moans, repeatedly.
Distractions like this happen a lot, but only when I'm trying to
concentrate. As if by hidden signal, Floor Two chooses moments I
thought would be full of peace and quiet -- five am Wednesday, nine am
Sunday, three pm Tuesday, two am Thursday -- to stomp around, throw
pots and pans to the ground, invite friends to a noisy orgy, explore
at high volume the intricacies and layered emotion of country music,
and vacuum.
I am polite. Or stupid. I just grit my teeth and bear it, preferring
instead to fume in healthy silent passive-agressive fury. Not even
when party guests were urinating off the second floor deck into the
garden below did I complain, but recently the neighbors finally took
it too far. Water gushing from the living room ceiling requires
action. I got out my big-as-a-club-doubles-as-a-weapon Mag Lite
flashlight, and went upstairs hot for blood. When I pounded on Floor
Two's door, a sleepy-faced young man answered, claiming the water was
from the third floor and "no big deal." Then he slammed the door in my
face. Then he reappeared after a bit, muttering something about the
bathroom and "it's taken care of now."
I wondered what exactly was taken care of, as I sat in my living room
watching the cracks in the ceiling multiply, grow and spread, while
buckets and towels scattered on the floor soaked up the water. The
landlord's phone rang and rang, unanswered. The neighbors chose that
moment to begin banging away again, writhing in pleasure while their
bathtub runneth over.
By the next day's harsh light, things didn't look any better, although
nor did they look any worse. We need little annoyances -- water
damage, for example -- to complain about, otherwise life would be so
dull. But as these annoyances grow and mount on top of each other, the
idea of having an entire house to myself starts to look better and
better. Even more appealing: I could move to the third floor and
become a professional Sumo wrestler who takes a lot of work home and
also enjoys long baths, possibly falling asleep to the gentle splash
of water pouring over the top of a cast-iron tub. Drip drip. Let's see
how you like it, evil neighbors.
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