If you know me, you know it takes a lot to disturb my slumber, which is most often described as something akin to being dead. Around 3:30 a.m. Friday morning, though, even I was awakened by what felt and sounded like a sofa being dropped on the floor at the foot of our bed. Well, I wasn’t really awakened, but I was disturbed enough to ask out loud, “What is that?” before sinking back into sleep. The noise and vibrations turned into a dream about our building being demolished while we were still in it. D left the room for a while, then returned with a report: “Our neighbors are having one hell of a fight.” At 3:30 in the morning.
Friday evening I went for drinks with a neighbor who gave us the whole story. Apparently the couple that live there are a bartender and a bar owner who regularly get into arguments when they get home from work. This one was knock-down, drag-out, with such cringe-worthy exchanges as “Where were you, asshole?” “Fuck you, asshole!” repeated ad nauseam, and everybody’s favorite “Why don’t you just go fuck him again, if you want to!” The banging was the sound of one of them opening and slamming drawers; at some point a figure could be seen roaming the building’s courtyard with just a blanket wrapped around him. The police showed up, the landlord gave a warning to the tenants, and all the neighbors I saw on Friday looked a little sleep-deprived.
This morning I saw a guy in the garage loading a suitcase and a cardboard box into his car. I hope that’ll be the last such disturbance we’ll get, but I’m beginning to realize that the proximity to nightlife also means proximity to people who live and work the night life.