Raise your hand if you enjoy listening to strangers make loud, guttural sex noises as clearly as if it were a digitally re-mastered track sold on iTunes for 99 cents.
Not surprising, especially considering “listening to strangers make loud, guttural sex noises” ranks just below someone vomiting and just above teenagers whining, It’s not fair on most people’s List of Annoying Sounds. Unfortunately, I have been living with these noises for six months. It’s what I fall asleep to most nights. Like a twisted pornographic lullaby.
You’re wondering how this is possible. My neighbors in the apartment above are a frisky 50-something rock ‘n’ roll couple with a penchant for classic rock loud enough to register on a Richter Scale and, of course, the all-hours love-making. Little did they know that one day they would get what was coming to them. Now this day is quickly arriving, but I’ll get to that in a minute. First, you need the details of this situation to fully appreciate the depth of Kyle’s and my frustration.
There was one night, for example, when Kyle was rousted from sleep to the tune of “Witchy Woman” by the Eagles, which repeated at full volume three our four times at midnight on a Thursday before finally switching to something else, which was no quieter.
There have been times when I’ve fallen soundly asleep, only to wake up to the woman above literally screaming in the heat of whatever it is they’re doing up there. She sounds exactly like a tornado siren. This is not an exaggeration.
I’ve also been shaken from slumber as early as 4:30 a.m. to the exact same noise, which in that deep a sleep can be frightening. You know how when you fall asleep while watching a DVD, then the menu eventually pops back up and cycles the same thirty-second clip of music over and over again, then that music eventually becomes the soundtrack to whatever dream it is that you’re having? Imagine that, but instead of soft legato violins, the sounds worming their way into your noggin are passionate moans and screams. I’m telling you, these were not pleasant dreams.
The music upstairs is almost as ridiculous, as the male occupant, slightly unshaven, adorned with a small gold earring in one ear, and covered in leathery skin (an obvious rocker in his day) can literally rock out non-stop for hours without a single break in the music. Throw in the occasional visit from the grandkids (who I assume were born with freakish elephant feet for the way they stomp around up there), and you’ve got a pretty frustrating situation.
I know I shouldn’t complain, especially considering that when I lived at Ironwood the kid below me came to visit literally daily to tell me I was stomping around above him, waking him from sleep and keeping him from studying, etc… But the difference here is that I actually tried to accommodate him. For months I don’t think the heel of my foot touched the carpet in that apartment a single time.
Still, though, every day he’d saunter up, knock on my door, and tell me it sounded like thunder was coming from his ceiling. I swear to you I was trying; he was just extra-sensitive.
I, however, contend that I am NOT extra-sensitive, and that these people are NOT trying to better the situation. They received five—FIVE—letters of warning from the Brookridge offices asking them to keep down the music and the sex, please. The fifth one even said something to the tune of “You have ten days to comply or you will be evicted from the premises.”
Four days later it all happened again, for the eight-thousandth time, and that was that. Eviction notice. Hip, hip…
This happened on Saturday, then, “You have ten days to move out because you’re jerks and nobody likes you.” The man, who reportedly has hidden said notices from wifey in the past, called the offices today and said, “We really don’t want to move. We promise we’ll never do it again. Can we please have a second chance?”
So I get a call from the offices today asking me if I believe the Sex Screamers (my affectionate nickname for them) deserve this second chance.
At first Kyle and I both had the same feeling—maybe he really will be good this time and the frustration and sleepless nights will end once and for all. Then we quickly realized that this is exactly how abused spouses manage to talk themselves out of leaving their husbands.
With that in mind, I told the friendly people at the Brookridge office that they should stand behind their eviction notice. These people were warned fairly and given plenty of opportunities to behave themselves, yet they still chose to make life miserable for us. There are consequences in this world for making the choices we make, and sometimes that includes eviction.
I asked the woman at the office how many people are set free on that “To Catch a Predator” show, even though they swear they’ll never do it again? I asked her what kind of precedent it would set in their complex to evict someone, only to immediately rescind the eviction because the people promised to be better. Why couldn’t they have gotten better after warnings one through five?
In other words, it’s over. They’re being asked to move out, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve had too few good nights’ sleeps in this apartment, and now I’m anxious to remember what R.E.M sleep feels like. I bet it’s orgasmic. Almost worth screaming over. But not quite.