You can’t get blood from a stone.

Or turn assholes into angels.

Sorta funny. Sorta sad. Sorta ironic*.

*Yes, I know the definition {most who use it do not} and am using it correctly.

Funny First

Twice “Sue” and I’ve talked about the noise — she being the upstairs tenant. Noise has been an issue since Day 1. Most recent talk was March 15. Ides of March.

I made it a priority to have a heart-to-heart with her that day, my birthday. After 5 months of noise, I was beyond exhausted, pushed well past healthy boundaries of endurance and patience. Not with her but him. Yairo is his name for the record. I’ll call him “Yaz.” Her live-together boyfriend. I couldn’t continue with with the noise of the preceding 5 months and sought a better year ahead, starting with my birthday.

You can tell a LOT by the sound of someone’s footsteps. Correction: I can. I’m extremely sensitive, plugged in, highly aware of my environment and more than a little psychic.

When I met “Sue” for our first talk, months after living beneath their noise, she was exactly as I’d pictured her by her footsteps. Exactly. Spot on. Down to her age, hair color and build.

Walls are no barrier when you’re sensitive and psychic.

She was as nice in person as I’d felt her to be by her footsteps before we met.

Here’s the thing about footsteps. Feet are more than our means of getting around. They transit energies. The energies of the person whom they transport. Body size has much less to do with it than you think.

Footsteps of a 200-pound person can be nearly featherlight if that person’s gentle, peaceful, kind on the inside. Meanwhile, a person at half that weight can walk like an elephant — because inside s/he is angry, arrogant, pushy, bossy, a jerk.

In short, it’s not how much you weigh that characterizes your footsteps, it’s who you are on the inside.

I liked “Sue” by her footsteps and I like her in person.

Funny is how I knew her looks, energies, personality even before I met her — based solely on her footsteps. No pun intended.

Sad’s Second

Her boyfriend’s another matter entirely.

I’ve listened to his footsteps, his stompings and goings-about in their apartment since November. I’m picking up that he’s got some sort of disorder, like ADD, because the man can hardly sit still for very long. She says he’s a couch potato. I know otherwise. I just don’t think she sees him for who he really is.

I’ve listened to him hammer, scrape, pound, drag heavy furniture across wood floors, rearrange rooms, assemble furniture, drop things, slam and slide doors and cabinets, drop more things. Day and night.

Yes, everything you just read he’s done and continues to do any time between 9 in the morning to past 10 at night.

“Sue’s” talked to him. Tried to bring him onto the page of Consideration and Thoughtfulness.

Doesn’t matter.

Nothing really changes. He is who he is. Who he is is macho man of Egyptian and Mexican descent. Men of those cultures are not known for their sensitivity, feminine ways, delicacy or compassion. Machismo, ego and certain brute forces and type of infantile “the world revolves around me” / “I rule the world” prevail.

Who he is is a jerk. An asshole. A man oblivious and ignorant and self-involved.

Above all, he simply doesn’t care about those around whom he doesn’t know (inc. other tenants).

He doesn’t care that his stompings and noises are sonic booms that reverberate across and shake my low ceilings.

He doesn’t care that his home renovations late at night are discourteous, selfish, unreasonable and engender no goodwill. He doesn’t care that his hammerings and heavy-duty furniture poundings and rearrangings at 9:30 or 10 at night are rude.

He doesn’t care.

His involvement with his self and interests is greater than his concern for or thought of others.

And that is sad.

Ironic, Isn’t It

Herein lies the irony of it all.

“Sue” has communicated the gist of our conversations regarding noise to her boyfriend. (I do not care to talk to him or even meet him for various reasons.)

He abides by “rules of consideration” — i.e., removing his shoes and boots (ohmigawd, talk about a thunderous herd of buffalo upon wood floors!) — when she’s present.

When she’s away, he does as he pleases. Stomps around in shoes. She has no idea.

Defiant two-faced son of a bitch!

To further pour salt into a wound, “Sue” and I addressed my using a broom against my ceiling to indicate when the noise (read: his noise) crosses a line at night.

In our extensive problem-solving discussion on my birthday, I broached that topic specifically because some people consider hitting-broom-on-ceiling rude and passive-aggressive.

I wanted to check with her and her feelings about it first before I took to doing it. She responded “no problem, I’m fine with it.” Especially at night. Can be a real pain traversing our awkward and unlit property at night.

The Kicker, Literally

I took her at her word.

Wouldn’t you know it. Last night around 9:30, pound pound pound. “Yaz” is slamming together what sounded like a piece of do-it-yourself furniture.

I gently but firmly hit my ceiling with the soft mop head. Inside my kitchen. Directly under their living/dining rooms where the action was taking place.

His pounding continued.

Thinking perhaps he didn’t hear me, I climbed onto the kitchen counter and pounded the ceiling several times with my fist.

What came in response floored me. No pun intended.

The Kicker. STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP STOMP.

Heavvvvy stomping. Deliberate stomping. Forceful angry stomping. I halfway expected to see his foot crashing through my ceiling!

Stomping that did NOT convey: “I hear you. I’m sorry. I’m making too much noise late at night. I’ll stop immediately and continue this project tomorrow.”

No. His stomping communicated:

“Fuck you. I’ll do as I want.”

And that, my friends, is the type of individual living above me.

Thoughtful. Caring.. Cooperative. Considerate of others. Respectful. Abiding of prior agreements. Courteous. Above all, kind.

Where Do Ya Go From Here?

Naturally a part of me answers:

“Away. Flee this space. Move.

“You deserve better. So much better than who Yairo is and what he is doing (showing absolute disregard and disrespect by his actions). Though he wears a friendly and accommodating smile, deep down he is a selfish and immature man with no concern or regard for others he does not know / people outside his own circle.”

The other part answers:

“Move? Are you crazy? Not only is now not the time, it’s not the season! (i.e., colleges are in session, students back, it’s spring, people are on the move, housing demand is WAY up!!)!

“How many moves have you made to date? Around 52? How many in the last 9 months just in your town alone? Three. Your priority, your NEED now is gainful employment. Setting a foundation for yourself. Income. Self-care. Not yet another upheaval. And certainly not running away because the neighbor is being an asshole. IS an asshole.”

Here’s the sitch in a nutshell. As it is, I already spend HOURS upon HOURS away from my apartment. Especially evenings, after “Yaz” is back from work. How do I know? You can’t NOT know his schedule intimately living below him! Every evening I leave the house. To avoid the Yukky World of Yairo.

That I was even home last night at 9:30 is rare. I decided at the last minute not to go see the band. Normally I hang out wherever I am past 10:30 p.m., their bedtime, and return only then knowing that all will be quiet then on the Western front.

Unfortunately, weekends they stay up later, requiring me to stay out at least past 11 p.m. to increase the odds of returning to a quiet and still space. Not guaranteed. Just increasing.

Where to go from here?

I’ll be bringing this matter — the matter of her boyfriend’s heavy and aggressive stomping, telling me to fuck off, in response to my mop-on-my-ceiling noise alert — to her attention.

She’s young. Like 25. They’re in love. They’re living together. Rose-colored lenses. Limited life experience. Unlikely she truly knows the person he is. He certainly REVEALS who he is by slamming me down and stomping on me even when it is HE who’s doing bad. Welcome to Machismo. Welcome to Asshole.

Oh yeah, the grand irony in all this?

I’ve known who these individuals are, even before meeting or seeing them! I’ve spot-on pegged them by intuition and psychic abilities and people-reading skills alone.

I KNEW by their footsteps.

I KNEW she was nice. Thoughtful. Considerate. And she is.

I KNEW, by his walking, that he’s an asshole. A macho jerk. A man who if you brought noise issues to him would smile and nod and appear accommodating. But then close the door and he’d stomp even louder on their floors. Deliberately. Just because he could.

My intuitive and psychic abilities are once again spot-on. I can read people well. Too well. Walls and floors are no barrier.

When you’re psychic, you see too much. Know too much. Hear too much. Feel too much.

When you’re a macho man like “Yaz,”, you feel little but your own sense of self-importance. The sun and moon and stars revolve around you.

Must be nice to be of a one-man world. Liberated from concerns, caring or awareness of others.

Must be nice to do exactly as you please, with no thought or consideration toward others around who mean nothing to you.

Must be nice to be a man and a dick. To rule the world in those ways. To be at the effect of no one and to disregard your effect on others.

I don’t want to be that man. Or person. It’s a pretty low station on the Totem Pole of Evolution and Consciousness. {And a crappy way to treat others.}

The Power of the Inconsiderate is greater than the Power of Good in our world.

And even though “Yaz” is a macho man of arrogance rather than respect, I choose inner peace for myself.

I choose to laugh at the folly. The follies of a young and pretty unevolved soul who chooses to respond with a vociferous stomping “fuck you” rather than a “my bad, I’m sorry.”

The growth, for me, lies in standing up for myself, choosing my battles wisely and not wrestling with a bear who is blind.

Best gift I can myself is an f-word. Not his f-word. Rather, forgiveness. Men like him will always get their just rewards, if not in this lifetime, then another.

So God, please bless me for having the courage to stand up for myself and communicate to “Sue” {who is safe} the behaviors of her boyfriend that yet again have crossed a line.

Please bless her in her kindness.

Bless him in his obliviousness and arrogance. Forgive him who is blind.

And let me go free. In peace.

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