The people you meet in your neighborhood
Or at least the people you hear from overhead when you’re trying to sleep.
I feel it’s time to revisit the topic of my fellow apartment building residents. Or at least one resident in particular. Those of you who have followed my relatively recent Twitter-based activities are already familiar with this resident. Yes, I’m going to be writing about the upstairs neighbor. In fact, the directly upstairs neighbor. The one who I affectionately refer to as “The Whore who Lives Upstairs.” It’s like the Man who Came to Dinner, with comparable Bette Davis-style crazy.
I’ve shared a ceiling/floor with her a little under a year. Or at least I think that’s true. The first time I met her was the week before Valentines Day when she knocked on my door, accessory dog in hand. Her request: she wanted to know if she could climb through my apartment to break into the apartment above because she had locked her keys in there but the window was open so she would just use that as a means of access and then be able to live her happy three-toned hair life in peace then. My response: “Um, hi. I don’t think we’ve met. You say you live in the building?” I think she detected my reticence to allow her nobody understands me torn fishnets and combat boot self to wander through my apartment for the purpose of breaking into “her” apartment, so she offered collateral in the form of her dog. Yes, she offered to leave her unwashed yapping dog behind in my apartment as she regained access to hers. Because it was still early (read: pre-noon) and clearly I wasn’t thinking, I think I muttered something equivalent to “Uh sure, whatevs, that makes sense” and she was off. And by off I mean hurling her dog at me and hurling herself towards the fire escape. The dog was placed on the floor and then it (gender unknown) and I continued to stare at one another in a battle of wills. I didn’t want it in my space and it clearly did not understand how to thrive in my West Elm inspired paradise.
Quick digression: I am actually a dog person. But I believe that dogs should a) not make high pitched sounds and b) be at least large enough to take down a small child if the situation arises. Small dogs I rank lower than cats, and I hate cats. They’re shifty. Small dogs are just annoying and unable to feed themselves. Digression over.
The WwLU returned, keys in hand and scooped up her dog and said thanks. She then said, “Oh, I’m hosing a Valentines Day party. I’ve turned my apartment into a Valentine and am going to be dressed like a Shah. You should stop by.” I took this as the equivalent of the empty invitation that one often gives when they run into a high school peer several years later. “Oh, we should totes do coffee.” Translation: God I hope they still don’t have my number. “We should catch up, if not before the reunion then definitely at it.” Translation: Now I’m really not going to the reunion (not that I was entertaining the idea of going to go before). Plus, to go back, she’s dressing up like a Shah for Valentines Day? And is a Shah different from a Sultan? Did she mean Sultan? Was she drawing her inspiration from an animated character? And what does either have to do with Valentines Day?
This was the last I saw of the WwLU. But sadly not the last I hear of her. Not so much from her as of her. I soon realized that she had a unique pattern of behavior. Because of her, I always know when the end of the month is coming. Some people have football injuries that allow them to recognize oncoming hurricanes forming in the Atlantic. I have a neighbor whose nighttime activities signal the emergence a new rent cycle.
I’m not saying that she’s whoring herself out for rent money. Well, actually I am. Here’s the pattern: within the week of the first of the month, there’s a steady flow of traffic in and out of her apartment in the super late and super early hours of the day. And before I get accused of being a creeper standing on a chair with a glass listening to the ceiling of my apartment, let me just say: no. From the heavy fireproofed doors slamming, to the creak of hardsoled shoes on her uncarpeted hardwood flooring, to the sound of bodies being hurled at a non-bedframe and/or boxspringed mattress placed on the floor, I have a pretty clear sonic impression of her activities without trying. And while I don’t know that it’s necessarily Gentleman callers that are visiting an aged Amanda Wingfield (it could be Lady callers… that Amanda always seemed a little left of center anyway), it’s clear that her nighttime visitors increases and she plays host to several different guests. But always within the seven days of the first of the month.
This is also not to say that she doesn’t get any during the rest of the month. It’s just there’s a distinct aural difference in her activities. Namely: the porn no porn distinction. During rent season, she provides her own sonic accompaniment. Other times of the month, there’s the aid of cinema. While I sadly cannot report on the specific titles, I do recall a moment when at 2:45 in the morning, I suddenly heard, coming from above, the sound of smooth jazz followed by the declaration “I want you to fingerbang me. Hard. Now.” Or perhaps, I should have said the series of declarations. Or maybe one declaration with a series of adverbial modifiers. Yes, that’s the most accurate. This was when I decided to sleep with my ipod and headphones and hoped that I wouldn’t inadvertently strangle myself in my sleep. An awkward obituary would have followed.
I know that the above summary may seem like a) I’m throwing serious shade at her (fair) and b) I’m a super creeper not only for listening but also writing this post (less fair, but I’ll own it). I don’t begrudge her for making a buck (I’m assuming that’s the activity and she hasn’t become like Michael Fassbender in Shame. Or at least for the cleanliness of the windows I hope not). My goal is not to Hester Prynne her shit (yes, I’m making that a phrase). I get it. In these economic times etc. Plus, in thinking about it, who am i to begrudge a honey who’s making money. A momma who profits dollars. Yes, Beyonce et al: she is an independent woman.
Girl I didn’t know you could get down like that. No wait I did. I’ve come to expect it monthly.
