My new house is nothing special.
A basement apartment on the side of a fading yellow house on the corner of a suburb slowly becoming outdated as its counterparts are being constructed on the other side of town. I'll give it that: a titch of "originality" in its environment (Which I have to do to oppose the bourgeoisie since I'm in my twenties and have to fulfill that obligation as a college student of this century. I can just feel the angst.).
The dents in the walls and the stains on the ceiling are evident of its neglect in past ownership, but I like to think that it had a more colorful history. The last owner only smoked in the same spot in the kitchen every day for 5 years and created the yellow stain on the ceiling. The scorch mark on the wall is from a birthday cake gone awry. Making a place home means deciding it was something more special before and now it's yours.
"The landlady said she would fix that sink...in November." Beth tells me again and again. Our bathroom sink is merely a statue new sinks might look at in a museum of the first pioneers of sinks (or at least the sinks that went to Woodstock). With two faucets, it's a mystery how this ceramic actually lived up to its expectation of washing things at the right temperature.
The first month was quiet. According to our landlord, our neighbor upstairs had sustained some type of injury and was usually with his sister. He might have even been up there and just never made a lot of noise; it was nice.
"When did our injured neighbor get so loud? And multiply?" I asked one day while I read a book at the table. The usual pitter-patter and occasional flush of a toilet had been replaced by what seemed to be people repeatedly pouring bricks all over the floor and then rolling in said bricks.
"I think we have new neighbors." Beth was right, new neighbors they were. Overnight, our quiet little basement turned into the underside of a highway (complete with hobo).
One afternoon during lunch, I started hearing music. I had learned earlier that week that while our apartment, already providing minimal insulation from sound above, provided even less when the small closet door to our washing machine was open. I opened the door and recoiled slightly at the sound. It was music alright-- the doin'-it kind. I quickly texted Beth. "They have sexy music on upstairs. They're totally doing it." "Ryan," she replied, "afternoon delight is a thing." I shuddered.
They ruined quiet shower time.
They ruined quiet lunch time.
Then, they ruined quiet movie time.
We were chomping down on salt and pepper chips when it happened. The movie was about to play and we were settled comfortably in our spots in the living room, Beth and I, when it happened. The noises. Such distinct noises they were.
"OH MY GOD." We hear from the floor above us. "YEAH, DON'T STOP. OHHHHH."
I turned to Beth, "Are they?..."
"They are." she said.
Our faces, then displayed with an appropriate level of disgust, quickly turned into the face of curious children.
"Open the laundry room door!"
We quickly crowded around the open door and listened.
"OH GOD. YEAH. LIKE THAT." and other grunting noises descended from above.
"You know," Beth said as she looked at me, "that girl is a really good faker."
I nodded and grabbed a few more chips out of the bag.
