Counting the Days Until the Nightmare Ends

It won’t be long now.

Thwack Thwack Thwack.

The incessant dronish sound like a broken belt striking the underside of a car hood. Like the relentless ticking of a timer on a bomb.

Eight more days.


The upstairs neighbors are home. Their every footstep is amplified x 1,000 and transmitted into and through my apartment.

Into and through by body. Into and through my head.


Who’s wearing the shoes with hard soles? We talked about this, S. and Y. — the couple upstairs — and I. At length. On my birthday in March.

I knew he doesn’t care. She appeared to at the time during that discussion about their noises and possible solutions. Her actions are reason to reconsider how caring she really is.

“We take our shoes off,” she’d said.

Uhhhh, no. You don’t. You do not. Shall I record the sounds for you?

Pages upon pages have been written primarily in my journal but here too about this Nightmare on A. Street. {A = the first letter of my street name.}

That’s due to change — officially — in about 48 hours. I meet with K. to sign the lease and hand over a deposit Monday.

It’s not until next Saturday — a week from now — that I move my stuff in.

I’ve already reserved the truck — Penske.

I’ve already lined up the helpers through my health practitioner-galpal.

I could do the move myself.

Every item in my place I moved in myself with no help. Hence I can move each out. Dragging across the pavement if need be.

This time, I’m choosing to receive help. I’m doing that because:

(A) my injured hurting shoulders cannot withstand heavy lifting.

(B) I have to learn how to ask for help when it’s needed. Receive help. I have to unlearn what my father beat into me: DO EVERYTHING YOURSELF. Repeat: EVERYTHING. YOUR. SELF.

It’s an ongoing life lesson and I’m far behind in learning it! So far behind. So asking for help WHEN I TRULY NEED IT is a small step in a journey of change.


It’s Saturday morning.

I rise Saturday and Sunday mornings with mitigated hope. Hope mitigated by disappointments. Anger. Rage. Like the rage of a caged tiger who needs to set free, released back into the wild that is his homestead.

Hope: for peace. For space. For solitude. For freedom from the Clack & Clomp Couple above.

Disappointment: They’re home. S. and Y.

Damn I wish they’d go away for the weekend! Or even the day. It’s summer. They’re young — 27-ish. They shouldn’t be sitting around like old folks in a rest home!

It’s only when they go that I get peace.


That’s him. I recognize his footsteps.

He’s a dick. A thug. I can’t stand him. I know who he is by the energy in his footsteps. I can tell. I feeeeeeeel it.

THWACK THWACK THWACK. Their swamp cooler’s on.

Along with their heavy walking, another indication they’re home.

The thwacking’s immediately above my head. I can’t escape it or flee it except by leaving. Which I do A LOT A LOT A LOT.

The TWACKING’s everywhere. It swallows up all the air on my patio and inside my apartment.

“My” apartment. Ha! I don’t live here. Never have. Courtesy of naive S. and her thug macho boyfriend Y.

Eight More Days

Just eight days until the end of this 9-month nightmare.

And it HAS been a nightmare. From Day 1 when they moved in; simultaneously, so did they.


I put on Pandora — Simon & Garfunkel’s now playing — and place a a speaker {a beautiful speaker it is too!} beside the window adjoining the patio in an effort to drown out the godddamn fucking THWACKING of their swamp cooler.

It’s having no effect. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

The metallic THWACKING is that loud. That obnoxious. That driving. And that echoing as it bounces off the walls of the next building.


It’s like listening to a jackhammer in slow motion for hours on ends.

Hours and hours, over and over again. THWACK THWACK THWACK! Either the upstairs neighbors don’t know. How can they not know??! It’s THEIR SWAMP COOLER!!!

Or they don’t care.


Dream On!

I want to sit on my tiny patio and listen to: nothing.

“Nothing” as in:

* The air flowing through the thick canopy of the giant tree here. I shall miss this grandfather tree.

* The beeping of horns, the passing roar of a motorcycle, a dog barking, the courthouse bells chiming on the hour and half-hour, the live music or cheering crowds during an event at the courtyard square — a weekly, nee daily, occurrence during the fine weather!

* The sounds of life.


* the all-invading dominating sound: THWACK THWACK THWACK.

Fuck. Them.

Eight days.

That doesn’t mean that in eight days, their sounds leave my life. No.

I’m moving most of my stuff then.

But I the person shall remain at the soon-to-be former apartment for some time for the final tidy-up. That’s another story. Another post.

It’s Pierce Property. They ding you for nail holes! Nail hole: $10 repair. Another nail hole: $10 repair.

Pierce looks for ways to keep your deposit. They’re famous for it — in not a good way!

If they don’t find them, they’ll invent them. So: TAKE PHOTOS! They’ll be your only evidence that the apartment WASN’T left in the condition that they claim.

My Closing Thoughts

I’m sorry I lived here. Not because the space is terrible or ghetto or the worst I’ve endured. It’s not.

I’m sorry I lived here as long as I did — nine months — because nothing good came of it. Not really. Not for me.

I stayed a few months too long. Shoulda been out after about 6 months. Around April.

Of course, hindsight’s 20-20.

I was still riding the optimistic that things could work out after the long talk about noise with the neighbors in March.

My good nature fucking got the best of me again.

As did my need to stay put for a year. A veritable lifetime to me, who’s moved how many times now? Like 53? I’ve lost count.

I wanted to believe that S. and Y. would do the right thing. The considerate thing. The neighborly thing. The good thing.

They didn’t. Especially he didn’t.

He’s a dick. A thug. A macho asshole.

And she’s in love and blind.

“One cannot sew a silken purse from a sow’s ear.”

Eight More Days

Eight more days of Thwacking and Thumping and “I Exist and You Don’t Matter” disregard from him. From them.

This is less a blog post than a journal entry.

Oh well.

A part of me feels like I’m losing my home. Understandable. I’ve poured enormous energies into making this space as positive as it can be.

And as I can be within it.

Yes, it’s a pairing. Spaces are no different from individuals and the relationships formed with them are real. So very real.

But it’s not my home. Not only because it’s a rental.

It’s not my home because it could never become so. Not under S. and Y.

One week from this very moment, a rental Penske truck shall be in the driveway.

Three or four of us shall be loading my laughable amount of furniture — laughable as in hardly any! — and boxes into the truck. Destination: a few miles away.

The nightmare’s closing.

The courthouse bells are just now chiming … 1 … 2 … 3 .. to the noon hour.

I’m Sorry

I’m sorry I must leave you behind, birds and hummers whom I feed so very joyfully.

I’m sorry I cannot be here to continue to enjoy your throaty song, summer cicadas.

I’m sorry, Apt. B, for the neglect from former tenants (not me) and any in the future.

And I’m sorry, Apt. B., that you must endure, as have I, the truly obnoxious and self-centered and even violent footsteps and energies of the residents above. I feel your weariness. I feel you beaten down, as am I.

It is {past} time to go.