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Dear Upstairs Neighbor,
I’ve never met you, don’t even know what you look like. All I know is you love your music, that thump thump thump thump techno music. I didn’t think people still listened to that stuff outside of a nightclub, especially in the comfort of his or her own home, until I was living underneath you. I was never a fan of the genre, not that it matters what genre when the music is cranked at such a volume that it booms through my ceiling when I’m trying to sleep at night. It’s not so much the music as a whole as it is the bass. Of course I’m not you, but something about it appeals to you to want to blast it into the morning.
If I had to guess, you’re under the influence of something. Otherwise, how could you enjoy this behavior? Either way, I’ve lost too many hours of sleep thanks to you and your hobby, and I’ve been forced a handful of times to call security on you in the middle of the night. It’s a convenience to call that number on my refrigerator magnet, to hear a woman answer the call, and for me to report the disturbance.
Last time, she said she would drive here and knock on your door. If you didn’t answer, she would call me back for me to call the cops.
Well, lucky for you, I missed her calls because, believe it or not, my phone happened to be set to DO NOT DISTURB. By then, you’d turned that racket off for the rest of the night, and I could fall back to sleep. My guess was that she’d knocked on your door but you didn’t answer it. You must’ve suspected it was the cops or even me, so you turned it off and kept it off for the rest of the night.
That wouldn’t suffice since last night you persisted to do it again. The thump thump thump thump had begun around 7:30 pm and endured while I was in bed. I even tried a pair of earplugs, but still, the thumping broke through the sound barrier.
Months ago, I complained about you to the manager. Rather than confront you about the disturbance, he gave me this refrigerator magnet. It’s the only defense against your delinquency.
The defense wasn’t enough. Even when it isn’t the middle of the night, I still hear that thumping when I’m making dinner or when I’m trying to read a book. Imagine trying to focus on a Kafka story, about a man who turns into an ape, with that mindless techno crap thumping in the background, as if it were taking place in a nightclub built out of cocaine.
At that hour, it’s hard to complain because it isn’t past curfew, which gives you permission to pollute the air. That said, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what you do up there as long as I don’t have to hear it.
The disturbances go beyond the music and its volume. Why do you have to walk around up there so often? Maybe it’s the way our building is constructed, but every footstep from you sounds like Bigfoot wearing cowboy boots. Sometimes, I’m jolted by what sounds like a bowling ball suddenly dropping to the floor when it could be your dropping a shoe. I can’t complain about that either. I guess I have to put up with you living up there.
One day, when I stepped outside to get the mail, there were scraps of paper littered near my doorstep. I looked around to see where they’d come from and picked up a few scraps to try and piece the puzzle together. On one of them was the number of your apartment.
I reported this to the manager, and he said that you owed the past rent and that you’d yelled at him about it. Never mind why he would divulge such information to me since it’s none of my business; that’s how he is. Yet you’ve made it my business by littering my doorstep with your problem. Too bad for me that it wasn’t an eviction notice. I’m waiting for that day to come.
There was even the night when I’d had enough of you and marched upstairs to your door with a pair of headphones I don’t use anymore. I left them there as a hint, a nudge, for you to wear them. They were quality headphones, the Sony WH-XM0004, one of the best wireless headphones on the market. Expensive ones, too. I don’t know what you did with them. Maybe you threw them away. You didn’t get the memo, though, since almost every night, I have to suffer through this thump thump thump thump.
I can only picture you lying in bed and living your version of paradise by playing what some people would dare call music. It certainly isn’t my paradise. Your paradise is my hell.
There will come a time when I call the police. I hope it sends the message so I can find my way back to harmony. Until then, I expect to hear this garbage tonight, tomorrow night, the night after tomorrow, and so on. What perplexes me for now, while I believe you’re closer to my age than you are a teenager, is what attracts you to playing this music so loudly when all you need to do is wear headphones. The whole purpose of them is to shield the rest of the world from your shitty taste in music.
Regards,
Benjamin
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