The guy in the apartment above me is an alcoholic. I don’t mean to be judgemental, y’know? But I’ve been counting the bottles he drops off his balconey, and minimum he’s dropping four a night. That’s what I judge, I guess: the dropping. It’s fuckin’ loud. And he’s only one floor up, too, so half of them just roll into the storm drain—and let me tell you, the echo is killer.
I haven’t met my upstairs neighbor yet. He lived here before I moved in, and I’ve been working graves. Maybe I’m a bad neighbor for not introducing myself. I don’t know. He’s pretty quiet, other than the beer thing. I love this apartment too, man—full kitchen, separate bed and bath. Not Chris’s couch, at least, but fuck it’s like, every night—pink, couple minutes go by, smash, couple minutes go by, pink, couple minutes go by, smash—Jesus! Should I reach out, see if he’s okay? It’s been like this since I moved in. I don’t know. I hope he’s alright.
smash
Shit, there he goes! I’m gonna get out on the porch, hang on.
shn, thuk
pink
I…
smash
shn, thuk
Sorry man, she woulda—oh, yeah, not a dude, unless he got his nails did. She woulda heard me, for sure. Weird thing is, I don’t see the broken glass when I get back in the morning; I think she goes out later and picks it up. Noise sucks though—and the thing is, it’s like, only really a problem for me, and I feel bad about texting our property manager, because I understand she’s probably going through something right now, but goddamn. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go say hi tomorrow. See how she’s doing.
I got one of those beanbag chairs from Walmart last week—so fucking good, like holy cow. I sit down in that bad boy and I just keep going down. You ever see whale sharks man? That’s what this is like—once you’re in the path of this chair there’s no saving yourself.
pink
Sometimes I think about where the rolling ones go, you know? Like, sure, the storm drain, but what happens in there? Those bottles are probably up to something, I’ll tell you that—it’s been more’n three weeks; she’s got an army in there by now. Little glass soldiers, wading down to the ocean ready to fuck up some fish. Bet they’ve got geopolitics and shit, man—import and domestic all clanging around down there.
smash
pink
Things have been alright out here. Work is slow. I got Thursday off last week outta nowhere. Didn’t do much with it—woke up early, went for a walk, played some guitar. Do you still play bass? God, probably not—not since college, right?
smash
Yeah, probably not. We should jam sometime, when you’re in town. Or I’m in town. Whatever lines up.
But yeah, not a lot at work. Late-night coffee isn’t a big hit, I think. Corporate keeps making us do these drinks—they’re making us do this new one, call it the San Francisco Summer, where you take lemonade and a half-serving of the matcha powder shit, add a shot of strawberry, and shake it with ice. It’s got this, like, criss-cross strawberry syrup on the inside of the cup like a frap, too. Don’t know what the fuck it has to do with San Francisco. You remember when we went there? I got the wallet back, but the cops never found my ID. Drink’s pretty good, but every time I make it I think of the DMV.
It really is a bitch to get out of this chair main. Usually when I call you I pace—you know how I go, just loops around the room. I’m trying not to wear a hole in the carpet while I’m here, but I called Mom earlier and I can already see the marks—maybe I’m seeing things, I don’t know. Oh, I called Mom earlier—that was fun. Haven’t talked to her since I was still living with Mom and Dad—nine months now? I started a program out here, when I got a good place—that’s what I said, you know? Once I have somewhere steady. I got my orange chip last Thursday. Pretty big deal. I think.
What should I say to my neighbor? It’s been, like, too long for me to introduce myself—I’ve lived here for, what, three-four weeks? Maybe I could bake something? Is it that serious? I gotta bring out one of my apology dishes. You remember if I made biscotti or amaretti when I knocked the mirror off Miranda’s Camry? I don’t know. It’s probably not that serious.
I really do wonder about those bottles, though. The storm drains aren’t made for that. Combat, I mean. I’ll see if I can get her to use cans, eh?
pink
Anyway, this is getting past five minutes, and I gotta get to work. Call me back when you can. Love you, big guy.
click
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