Meet the Clomp and Clack Couple

Not Click and Clack the Tappet Brothers. Rather, Clomp and Clack the Couple Above.

The moniker for the active couple in the apartment with wood floors above, described prior as an elephant herd of two. (No offense to elephants.)

For those unfamiliar, Click and Clack are two brotherly heaps of hilarity named Ray and Tom who host a most informative nationwide radio show called “Car Talk.” Their unique brand of wit, sarcasm, intelligence and mechanical savvy make ’em certainly among the most sought-after advisors for callers with car woes. (I tried to get on once; not a chance!)

Clomp and Clack the Couple — so named because he CLOMPS CLOMPS CLOMPS and she CLACKS CLACKS CLACKS in high heels and hard-soled ladies shoes — have quieted down some in the past coupla days, only because they finally finished moving in.

If thumping and scraping of wood against wood are any indication, they hauled in enormous amounts of furniture, including one piece that required assembly with a hammer based on ears-deafening and brain-nullifying volume and force of pounding.


Talk about a pounding headache! {not theirs.}

Furniture items that included something that fell to the floor with a CRASHING shock and then proceeded to roll.

ROLLROLLROLLLROLLLLROLLLLROLLROLL across the floor, a decorative ball, loosened perhaps from a piece of furniture, somersaulting with the velocity of a ball heaved by world champ bowler Bill O’Neill.

Whatever the item, the CRASH and reverberations into their wood floor unleashed such the torrent of shockwaves across my ceiling and into my eardrums that I sprung a foot up in my hands-and-knees position on the floor. A linoleum floor I was liberating from apparently 10 years of ground-in dirt.

I don’t have their nice fancy wooden floors but if I did, I certainly wouldn’t wear shoes with neighbors below. Actually, I wouldn’t wear shoes at all, neighbors or no, but that’s really not the point. Point is, I’m considerate of others … and others aren’t.

The Clomp and Clack Couple are a couple on the go. Go go go.

Between ’em, when they’re not shifting and dragging furniture, stomping or shouting “huzzah!” (I can only hope they’re watching TV sports), they’re working irregular schedules.

I’d think they’re employed based on their youthful age, evidenced by strides replete with vim and vigor, rent and a verrrrry expensive BMW (?). Their second car’s a low-rent hillbilly spankin’ bright blue big pickup. These two ain’t hurtin’ for $.

Someone’s always home. When he’s gone, she’s there. When she’s gone, he’s there. Sometimes they’re both there. I’ve yet to experience their apartment still and silent for any duration. And since she’s most always there — as identified by the comparatively lighter marching and Clack Clack Clack of ladies footwear — wouldn’t surprise if she works at home.

Oh ode to joy!


Way I see it, I can be miserable or I can make light of the situation with the oblivious couple; if I don’t, I may shoot someone. Or, better still, power up my trusty Craftsman — only after inserting the biggest bit, of course — and begin drilling, well, let’s call ’em airholes into my ceiling, their floor

As explanation to the landlord police, I could claim my apartment’s small and stuffy (it is) and woefully lacking in circulation and cross breezes (all true) plus some parts get little to no light (again, true).

“Really, officer, have a look inside. I was just tryin’ to create some air flow. {cough cough} It’s so {cough} stuffy and {cough} stagnant-y in here. {cough} We each and all need oxygen to {cough} live. {cough cough}”

Don’t see the cough clause holding up in court.

Rather than drastic measures to cope with the Clomp and Click Couple, I’m opting for the path of peace, like mentioned in post prior.

Too, I find keeping busy, listening to music at a skull-crunching reasonable pleasant volume and consuming copious moderate amounts of alcohol to be tickets to the Peace Train.

Call me Yusuf Islam. Just don't call me late for the train.

Call me Yusuf Islam. Just don’t call me late for the train.

Oh how pissed off proud would be Cat Stevens if he knew of my shameless pilfering of his renowned song title.

I bet he doesn’t wear shoes on wood floors!


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