This week, my esteemed editor (Tim, of the red hair and swanky ties) handed me a fairly simple assignment: write 800 words on the upcoming Bill Street Faculty Concert on November 19.
This is not that article.
I had every intention of writing that article (and no, dammit, this is not another ‘the dog ate my article’ story, so wipe that look off your face, Mister Never-Missed-A-Deadline-Ever). Anyway… So, I was going to write the article-in fact, was perfectly happy to do so-but then there was mayhem and sworn statements and, yes, smoke and sirens. In a frenzy, I shot off an email to Editor Tim, who was most sympathetic to my plight; he emailed back in an offhand way, saying “If you want to write an article on why you couldn’t write the article, I’d print it.”
So, (deep breath) this is why I didn’t write the article on the Bill Street Faculty Concert.
First, a little background on My World:
I’m in grad school at USM and I’m a writer; both of these conditions lend oneself to a certain financial instability (I’m poor). Plus, I have a giant pooch (Moonshadow), and landlords aren’t that amenable to giant pooches. So, between the poor thing and the dog thing, I don’t live in the best neighborhood. It’s not Harlem, but it’s not Bel Air, either. The dark, winding corridors have a very distinct smell-sort of a combination of stale pot, garbage, and…well, rotting flesh-and my neighbors leave a little to be desired.
With the exception of my own, all of the apartments in my building are home to couples or families, all of whom have single-handedly destroyed any desire I may have had to ever develop a lasting relationship. Why would anyone willingly choose to live with another person, if this is the result? All of the couples in my building seem to really, really hate each other. Loudly. Venomously. Except, of course, when they really, really like each other-which they also do at impressive decibels and with much fervor.
Which brings us to the day in question: Wednesday, November 10. It started like any day in my universe, with the train. If the train were ever to derail, I would be the first victim; the tracks are just outside my bedroom window. I’ve gotten used to it, barely turning over in my sleep now when it goes cruising by, which it does frequently throughout the night. But my downstairs neighbors always seem to get up right around the five-thirty train; I haven’t gotten used to my downstairs neighbors yet.
The downstairs apartment is kind of like a clown car, in that it houses an innumerable quantity of people, of all shapes and sizes. The only constant among them is a girl, about twelve or thirteen. We’ll call her Claire. Claire plays the clarinet and the keyboards and she almost always has her hair in a ponytail. Really, she seems lovely-at least, by day.
That’s just a trick, though. Because as soon as night falls, all hell breaks loose. And the pre-dawn hours are the worst; at about 5:30 two or three times a week, Claire tends to wander outside. Maybe she’s gone to curse out the train for waking her. Maybe she just needs some fresh air, or a break from the clown-car apartment. Whatever the reason, 5:30 a.m. finds Claire outside, just below my bedroom window. And pretty much without exception, every morning at around this time, someone in the clown car apartment locks Claire out.
Why, you ask? Why would they do such a thing? How can people be so cruel?
I can’t answer that. People are nuts, that’s all I know. But Claire always searches for a reason; at 5:30, locked out of her apartment, standing below my apartment, she questions her tormentors. Relentlessly. With the subtlety of a foghorn. One of these wretched freaks is apparently named England. I know because for the first month that I lived here, Claire shouted it beneath my window every morning. At first, I thought perhaps she hadn’t discovered the wonders of AT&T-overseas calling can be tricky, I know, but there’s a reason those tin-can phones we used as kids never caught on. You’ve gotta have a dial tone, man.
Because I’m kind of afraid of my clown car neighbors, I never intervene-eventually, someone (perhaps England) lets Claire back in. I keep meaning to take my young neighbor aside one day and give her one of those Hide-A-Key things that she could plant outside with a spare key. I’d even spring for the spare key.
Anyway, that’s how Wednesday morning started.
I went to work because, since I’m a writer, I naturally must have a day job. I sell old postcards on the internet with my brother; recently, I’ve discovered that I’m allergic to old postcards. Or at least, the dust and mold on them. That’s a whole other story, involving a lot of phlegm and a smattering of hives. So, tired and itchy and ready for a quiet evening of responsible journalism, I returned to my apartment.
Dinner was cooking, season three of Alias was cued up in the DVD player, and then there was a noise.
Not a little noise.
A crash. Followed by a series of screams. Naturally, I muted the TV, since what was happening outside my apartment seemed far more interesting. Lots of swearing, more crashes, more bangs and then a prolonged scream before the building went silent.
I’m not an interloper. I’m a writer-people live out their lives, I write down the crazy shit they do. I try not to get involved. In this case, though, my neighbor down the hall seemed to be getting her ass kicked. Her very pregnant ass. So, I called the cops. And the cops came and the loving boyfriend went berserk and there was much screaming and crying and many sirens; then, just when the frenzy had abated, sworn statements had been taken and people had dispersed, I noticed the smoke filling my apartment.
Unrelated to the crazed couple, apparently a fuse had blown (up), starting a small fire that caused no significant damage to the building except that now my computer smells like burned toast. And so does my dog. So, I gave up on responsible journalism and went to my brother’s house; since he is neither a student nor a writer and wisely chose to embrace capitalism early in life, there are no psychotic neighbors trying to kill each other there.
And that is why this is not a preview of the Bill Street Songbook. In closing, however, I will say that the Bill Street Songbook looks very promising. You should go-really. Provided I’m not killed by rabid neighbors seeking revenge, I will definitely be there. The concert will be held Friday, November 19 at Corthell Hall. For tickets and information, call (207) 780-5555.