Average Jane



2209: You’re on notice!

11:00pm. I just got off the phone with my mom so naturally I’m in tears. The conversation ended with the ever popular “Fuck you!” and the anti-climatic pushing of the “end” button. I sat stewing in my juices for a few moments when I noticed the *thump-thump-thump* that hearkened back to my college days. The strong, pumping bass of music being played way too loud for anyone’s good. It wasn’t that I was trying to go to bed at 11:00, it’s just that it’s my time to wind the fuck down and I don’t need anyone else’s music in my head all fucking night.

Not to mention, even if I could crank “Good Eats” loud enough that Alton Brown’s crooning voice drowned out the sound of noise from below, the bass vibrated the floor, and by extension, my couch. There was no escape. I really did try. I tried for the longest 10 minutes of my life to just deal with it. After all, I wasn’t tucking myself in just yet. But I just couldn’t take it any longer. I walked downstairs to the offending apartment and knocked. Twice. No answer. I could make out distinctive clanking coming from within, covered by the loud, thumping, bumping, floor vibrating heavy metal. I have no say – he has impeccable taste in music. But FUUUUUCK THAT!

I went upstairs and called the apartment operator to call the courtesy officer – a local county cop that lives on site to deal with just such issues. He called me back almost immediately, and thanked me for at least attempting to fix the situation on my own. Apparently people are a little trigger happy with the police-calling these days. Unfortunately, he was on duty across town and couldn’t come to my rescue. How damsel-in-distressy.

Unwilling to utilize the non-emergency number, I went downstairs again prepared to do battle. I knocked. Three times. Loud. Meeeeeh — “Firm”. It took a few seconds, but he emerged. A young guy. Thin blonde hair, almost baby-like. Short. Pudgy. Cherubic face.

And carrying a “Economics for Dummies” book.

“Oh — Is it too loud? Is that loud?” Yeah. It’s loud. Fucker.

He literally was studying for an exam like I studied for exams in college. Music blaring. But we’re not in college anymore, kit kat. We’re adults now. And it’s late. And I’m really grumpy if I don’t get the appropriate amount of rest which is determined exclusively by me and tonight was thwarted by… you.

So apartment 2209… You’re on notice. And the courtesy officer that was busy protecting people from real crimes and shit has you on notice, too.

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Comments

  1. * Mrs. Emily says:

    I don’t want to be a dick. I want to be real.

    But adults don’t end conversations with “Fuck You”.

    As an adult I can certainly say that some conversations do, in fact, end with “Fuck you”. They aren’t elegant conversations. They aren’t ideal conversations. And I certainly wouldn’t say that you, as an adult as well, should end your conversations that way, but given the circumstance, a circumstance that I can’t imagine you understanding since I haven’t given all the details and 15 years of backstory, this was one instance where it just happens that way.

    | Reply Posted 9 years, 6 months ago


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