The call came at approximately 10:47 p.m. It was my roommate Joe, and he was upset.
It was hard for me to tell that Joe was upset because he's such a nice, gentle and soft-spoken guy. In fact, whenever I ask anyone about Joe, they say "Joe? Oh! He's so nice!"
That stands in stark contrast to the reaction most people have when I say hello to them:
"Oh. It's you."
At least, I think that's what they're saying. It's hard to completely make out the individual mumbles, but that's mostly because of the shunning that accompanies them.
But Joe was upset. Really upset. Mega-upset.
Joe was "I'm in last place in Mario Kart and the item box gave me bananas" upset.
"Brian," Joe whimpered, "the people upstairs are playing music."
"You mean they're having a party?"
"No, they're playing music."
"What's so bad about that?"
"Okay. Let me rephrase. The people upstairs are performing music."
"Whoa."
The situation was, as they say, "for serious."
Out neighbors are, to put it mildly, the most explosively loud individuals to inhabit the earth.
It's as though they saw the death of The Who drummer Keith Moon as God throwing down the gauntlet:
"Thou Shalt Not Cranketh It Past 10."
Accepting God's challenge to noisemakers everywhere, our upstairs neighbors picked up the gauntlet. They then filled it with dynamite and various combustibles, lit the fuse, and shouted back:
"Verily shall we cranketh it to 12 and beyond!"
Joe was calling to tell me that these princes of pandemonium, these deities of din, were at the present time engaged in an impromptu band practice.
My initial reaction was one of shock. I didn't even know the people upstairs had instruments. I had to wonder what their practices would be like.
"Bob, I'm really going to need you to give me more out of that tire iron. When you smash it against the fridge, smash with purpose. The song just isn't going to come across as a power ballad if you're not smashing the holy hell out of that fridge."
"Hey guys. I'm new here. What can I play?"
"Well, most of the main parts are filled. We'll put you on Second Fragmentation Grenade."
Something needed to be done. In fact, only the passive voice will suffice to describe just how "for serious" our sense of urgency was.
Skulls were to unceremoniously be cracked, lives prematurely ended. Clearly even infinitives were to ruthlessly be split.
When I think of unceremoniously cracking skulls, the vision of one man and one man alone springs to mind.
He is a man of principle. A man of character. A man with zero tolerance for those who stupidly inconvenience his life.
He is my friend Jonas, and he bleaches his laundry with the ground bones of those who would dare buzz his apartment when they forget their keys.
Jonas knocked on our neighbors' door with the delicacy and gentleness of a howitzer.
There were giggles on the other side.
Jonas knocked again, sending magnitude five shockwaves through the doorframe.
The door opened. A disheveled-looking envoy appeared. The heathens had chosen him as their mediator to the outside world. He spoke:
"We, uh... Uh... We, uh... We were just finishing up."
Jonas and I entertained the mind-boggling odds that we arrived at their apartment at the precise conclusion of band practice.
To quote P.G. Wodehouse, indeed, it boggled.
"I see. Very well then. Hey, is that a domesticated zebra?"
"Yeah, he's filling in for our bassist."
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
