Tolerance has its limits, and one of them is 2:30 a.m.
By Jenny Bundock
Here’s a shocker, I’m the type of person who pretty much must live alone (in quite the rad looking apartment too). But besides the occasional cat companion, and visits from friends and boyfriends, I spend much of my time solo during the week. Mostly I occupy myself working on crushing grad-school deadlines, which seem oh-so ominous these days, and reading, so I can meet those deadlines with some intelligence and poise (if I am lucky). That being said, when someone has the ability to impact my life in my home, with little or no regard for the person on the other side of the plaster, I get seriously irked.
I am not saying that I am quiet as a mouse every minute of every day, nor would I expect anyone else to be, but at 2:00 a.m. I think it’s reasonable to think people won’t spend their Sunday night kicking-it-up-a-notch when likely everyone in the seven other apartments this house is split into has a place to be tomorrow.
Take two weeks ago — I believe it was a Sunday, or possibly a Tuesday — as an example. I got in from Toronto around midnight, exhausted, and needing to get some sleep before my class the next morning. As I am brushing my teeth, I notice that I can hear the Dixie Chicks. Odd. I don’t recall even being able to hear the people in the other apartment speak or their radio before — but I assume this is a weird occurrence that has more to do with me being unobservant in the bathroom previously, than with an inconsiderate person in the next place currently. I was dead wrong. About 60 seconds later I realized that I could in fact hear the Dixie Chicks in every room of my home.
I decided, hey, you know, they are probably writing a paper or something, and listening to the radio to keep the energy level up. I can get on board with that. I will try to sleep despite my searing hatred for country music, and be a good neighbour. This is easier to plan to do than actually do, especially when you hear country covers of two to three R&B songs, and then a HANSON cover (I swear to you, I wouldn’t dare make a thing like that up). After not being able to sleep for an hour, and it now being quarter to two, I decided to give a little tap on the wall, to alert them that I was still lying awake. No response. I waited another 15 minutes, and tapped again. No dice.
After getting up, trying to find something I could take, like a Tylenol PM or drowsy anything, and returning to the bed empty handed at 2:30, I really let the wall have it. Again, not even the slightest fluctuation in volume. I was not the only one. Between 2:30 and 3:00 the person above me, and the person above them, stomped vigorously on the floor, to no avail. The fifth and final time I banged on the wall, at 3:30 a.m., they actually turned the music up! Because I guess all of us sleepers were really harshing their ability to enjoy the sweet-ass blaring radio all night.
I ended up sleeping through my 7:00 a.m. alarm, because I had only JUST fallen asleep, and missed my class. It was pretty rotten, I felt like an asshole, and probably missed a bunch of useful info, like where the Graduate Department gold is buried, or what sustainability really is — and for what? Hanson covers with twangy guitars, and a lot of guys who are really proud that they were born in the country, to their mamas, and grew up to date girls with names like Mandy, who like to drink whiskey? Good trade!
So whoever you are, in apartment 2 — consider this: I have a paper to write in a few weeks. I also LOVE Dillinger Escape Plan and judging by your taste in music, I can bet that you like them, oh, about as much as I like Toby Keith. You may not realize it but you’ve got a date with a double-kick. Don’t worry, I’ll put the speakers against your wall so you don’t miss a minute of it.
