prisoners
dear becky in 2M,
yes, i received the note that you left on my door
inquiring about why i continue to pound on my
ceiling i.e. your floor. call me crazy, becks, but
i’m just not a big fan of rap music blasting down
on me while i’m sitting in the quiet of my living
room contemplating all of this madness. my wife
and i simply aren’t fans of hearing THUMP, THUMP,
THUMP while we’re trying to have dinner or read,
as we continue to try and keep ourselves safe and alive.
we must seem dull to you, but the truth of the matter
is we’re all stuck here together. prisoners, for lack
of a better word. i don’t like it any more than you do.
there are art museums and a little japanese noodle place
that i miss on 4th street. instead i had to trade them
for masks and hand sanitizer and staring at walls.
it’s hard to stare at walls when someone is blasting
music down on you. maybe you’d understand if
you were older. apartments must be more like dorm
rooms when you’re only twenty-four and daddy is
paying the rent. it must be a real drag having some
fat old fuck pounding on your floor while you and
the boyfriend are trying to get your groove on. it’s
a real drag being a fat old fuck, too. especially one
who didn’t come from wealth or go to a private college
and has to pay his own debt. we do as we must, becky.
but, going forward, how about we make a deal?
you keep your music to your apartment and i won’t
sit down here stewing in vodka and anger until i
lash out in a rage. we’ll both keep trying to be
better neighbors. kinder and gentler to each other
and this collective trauma we’re all experiencing.
how does that sound, becky? does that sound fair?
because if it doesn’t, i just want to let you and that
cool boyfriend of yours know, that i’m up every
morning at 4:45 a.m. (a hazard of getting old) and
it would be a shame to have to grab that broom handle
and wake you two assholes up with me,
each and every single day.
yours truly,
john in 1M
03.15.21
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