Where the Line is Drawn

Friday is my day off this week, a meager apology for the fact that I'll be working in the surreal quietude of Saturday. That meant that this morning, as Sean's alarm erupted into loud reports of traffic and Teddy Bruschi, I got to roll over and go back to sleep. Lovely.

Except for one thing: Our "new" downstairs neighbors. I say "new" because, for the majority of the time we have lived here, our downstairs neighbors were three twentysomething guys who were, we now realize, nearly as quiet as church mice. (Wait...do mice go to church? What religion are they?) Our "new" neighbors are a twentysomething couple, who I firmly believe enjoy tap-dancing around the house wtih cider blocks looped around their feet; usually around 1 am.

Now, dear reader, I admit that I am not the quietest of apartment dwellers. I enjoy a heavy-footed jig every now and again, and am occasionally known to play Southern Cross 37 times in a row (to Sean's dismay). But I do not generally engage in the behaviors my ears bore witness to this very morning. Oh, what they bore witness to!

There was yelling. Screaming, even. It was followed by shouting. This was yelling, not of the "we-are-in-a-big-fucking-fight" variety, but more of the "I-feel-like-sounding-my-own-personal-Barbaric-Yawp-right-the-fuck-NOW" yelling, which is far less tolerable and/or interesting. The yelling, screaming, and shouting were accompanied by an occasional interspersion (is that even a word?) of laughter.

I flopped around and gave the bedroom floor (from where the sounds were coming) the evil eye. This accomplished nothing.

The yelling and screaming interspersed with laughter was followed up by a series of whistling. Not the kind you use to call a wayward field spaniel back to your side, mind you; but the shrill futile attempt to sound melodious kind. The whistling stopped only because one cannot simultaneously whistle and yell or scream; so whistle-pauses had to be enacted for this very purpose.

I pulled the comforter up higher in an attempt to catch a few more minutes of snooze time. This accomplished nothing.

You see, it was time for the pinnacle of the performance. The Coup de Grace, if you will. I heard, from my warm bed-nest above, the unmistakable sound of Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On being sung in a rich yet tone-deaf male baritone, each word drawn out and elongated as if it were a photo of a Cosmo model.

There was nothing more I could do. It was time to get up. And go to another room. And miss my old neighbors, who never screamed, never yelled, never whistled, never sang Celine Dion. Come back, old neighbors! Come back!