The Upstairs Neighbor
It all started with a dog named Cujo. He was named after that one dog no doubt, that scary dog that everyone saw in that old creepy movie. But this Cujo was nothing to run away from. He was more rabbit than a dog. He had the looks of a genetic error and the personality of a brainless adolescent. Directly and perhaps biology related to him was the his owner, a vociferous nineteen year old student from the local community college. This guy was no Danny Pintauro. At best, he was less than average in every category.
I never caught this guy’s name nor did he throw it in my direction. Ever since that incident the other night, we have done our best to avoid one another. Ever since that one party they threw, ever since I called the cops, ever since they cited him for violation of the city’s noise ordinances, ever since they cited him for underage drinking, every since they found that dime bag on. He somehow and for some reason blamed the entire thing on me, his downstairs neighbor.
I thought about it for a while and still failed short of a conclusion. Was I becoming a spiteful old man like the ones you always saw around the deli or the public library? Was I simply jealous of youth? Back when I was twenty years old, I started my weekends on Wednesdays only to end them at the conclusion of Monday night football. When I was younger, I could drink like any man, with pride. I had no preferences back in those days, the cheaper the beer the better we all were about it.
Now this witless, senseless, idiotic grown child was killing my nights. That 8am public relations class that I had to teach was killing my mornings and in the middle of it all I became a bitter insomniac.
Ever since the incident, war has been declared and the upstairs kids are taking no prisoners. Their television grew loader with every hour that pasted by. Like a bunch of drunk incestuous Sumatran rhinoceros, they run around the apartment jumping up and down in an attempt to tear away at the barrier concrete and at the edges of my sanity’s external membrane.
But that was not the worst of it.
I have not yet mentioned Jenny Sue.
How that son of a bitch ever got himself such a woman was beyond my comprehension. The fact that guys like these got to sample such high quality ass was the ultimate evidence of the abundant lack in universal justice. If indeed there was a God, why would he bestow this upstairs heathen a unswerving residence in God kingdom, in between her lovely thighs?
Jenny Sue always ran around the apartment complex in a skimpy tank top and those tiny tiny pink shorts that read JUICY across the backside. Her voice was made of butter and her lips were the serving spoons. At the tender age of eighteen women still had that adolescent wholesomeness sprinkled across the windows of their charm. Ten years later most women would replace that allure with the subtle bitterness that typically resulted from a broken heart or a cheating boyfriend.
My mind was filled with friendless envy and my nights were disturbed and limited. I thought about it for a while. I thought about calling the cops. I thought about letting the air out of their tires. I thought about poisoning their dog. I thought about it and thought about it but in the end I simply gave up like most men around my age typically do.
At night when Mr. dumbfuck made love to Jenny Sue, her voice trickled through the frail hairs on my arm, through the thin walls of this old apartment complex.
Six months later and the U-Haul truck drove away with Jenny Sues’ possessions. An older couple moved into the upstairs apartment and replaced my jealousy with the trite taste of routine.
Another summer ended in this small city and then another came around. With every winter that passed and every woman that I left behind, I came to appreciate the undemanding pleasure of youth, the one thing in this world that you could never replace.
Hard-Boiled Men