The Clomp & Clack Couple kick it up a notch. Or 6.

I express my gratitude to the police department of Prescott.

Last night, the upstairs neighbors overstepped boundaries of neighborliness, consideration and civility. I endured the booming audio, conversations and activity for two hours.

When at 11 p.m. there were no signs of volume and noise receding, I telephoned the police, explained the situation and requested they pay a friendly visit and request that the noise be turned down.

At the officer’s request, I gave him my name and requested that the source of the call remain confidential for risk of repercussions. I believe it’s standard police policy; however, I want to take no chances or be at risk of retaliation. I don’t know who these neighbors are or what they’re capable of, only that they behave badly and are oblivious to those around them.

I thanked the officer genuinely, went to my bedroom and shut the door for some comparative quiet. In short order, the ruckus and booming audio were lowered.

I felt so badly for my neighbors who also live below them and residents next door. Sound carries. Sound carries through floors, especially wooden. It carries through the air, especially this dry crisp air. Be it the stereo, TV or video games, be it her shriekings, his cheers or their conversations, they carry, pulsating into surrounding spaces, disrupting the lives or sleep of others.

If a week with the new neighbors has made any one thing clear, it’s that they’re assholes and oblivious. Obliviousness can take many forms. It can mean someone’s intentionally being unaware, looking the other way out of disregard, disrespect, arrogance. Or it may mean someone is so self-absorbed or -involved that others cease to exist.

Whatever the root causes, the Clomp and Clack couple above have been nothing but loud, self-involved and oblivious to all around them since arriving about a week ago.

I contemplated before calling the police. I contemplated the best action in a situation of over-the-top noise persisting deeper into night.

I (already in pajamas) considered knocking on their door and requesting they turn it down. I considered doing nothing. I considered writing a simple informational email to property manager. I weighed each option, each potential pro and con. None seemed the right action.

Then the police came to mind. I do not want interaction with the neighbors above. I don’t want problems. I don’t want to meet them or “bring them into my life” beyond the obvious (they’re already well in my life by virtue of their behaviors!).

I’m still keyed up … and unhealed … by the neighbors in the last residence. After that experience, I trust NO ONE in a living environment to be sane or fair or reasonable or thoughtful. Their lack of goodwill or simple kindness really stung. Burned. The upstairs neighbors could be just as bad … or worse!

It AIN’T worth the risk or trouble. Better to lie low and let the authorities handle it. Authorities whose job it is to maintain or restore public peace.

So that’s what I did. The right course of action in a situation made over-the-top and crappy by upstairs neighbors.

Don’t let the assholes ruin a perfectly good place for you.
Don’t let the assholes ruin a perfectly good place for you.
Don’t let the assholes ruin a perfectly good place for you.

My motto my mantra guidance from spirit.

You can’t change assholes. Let them be.

You can change only your response. And when matters get out of hand, as they did last night, involve the authorities whose work it is is to do what was called for and needed: Reduce the noise. Restore public peace.

Ah, the joys of apartment living!

Once again, a big thank you to the police, the officer who took the call and made the visit. I’m so grateful that you took action for the good of all in the immediate vicinity who are impacted by the actions of a few.

I keep praying for the strength to … not endure their awful behaviors, rather to move forward to a better me and a better life … one day free of all intrusions, all interference, all burden brought into the home by the baddies, the meanies and the plain obnoxious.
It’s no way to live, oppressed and suppressed and trodden upon by others.

God grant me the strength to MOVE THROUGH for my own good and growth so that one day I WILL have a home. That is mine. No neighbors. No stompers. No assholes. Only goodness, kindness and good souls. Help me get there. Thank you. Amen.


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!