April 1999
s m u g
smoking jacket
by Gregory Alkaitis-Carafelli

Bathtub of Pleasure
Apartment life gone horribly wrong

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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gregory@smug.com

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