Kill Bill

Okay, maybe not kill him. But quiet him. Silence him.

Bill’s my upstairs neighbor. Quite a friendly guy. Quite a large guy. Large. Very large. I’m guessing 280 pounds large. Walking on hardwood floors, no carpets (because he likes the look of the wood) large.

Which wouldn’t be that bad. Not really. Except that he manages a night club. A night club that causes him to return to his hardwood floors, no carpets, I just happen to be wearing cowboy boots and will drop them above your bed, apartment at 4:30 am each and every morning of the week. And invite his friends to do likewise.

It’s gotten to the point to where even if he’s not working, I still wake up at 4:30 am. Look at the clock. Look at the ceiling. Mumble curses, turn over, and try to re-enter REM state.

It’s a difficult situation. See, I’m a heavy sleeper. So when I am awakened, I’m quite incoherent. Incoherent to the point that I don’t have my wits about me to bang on the ceiling with my broom. Incoherent to the point that I don’t have my wits to call my building manager in the middle of the night so that it becomes an important issue to her. I do talk to Bill the next day. He is extremely apologetic. And usually sends me bottles of wine. With sweet notes. “I’m terribly sorry about the noise. Please accept this with my sincerest apologies.” Which I do.

But right now I would rather have a solid night’s sleep. Shhhh.

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