Upstairs Neighbor appears to have procured a treadmill. No. You know what? Scratch that.
Upstairs Neighbor appears to have procured both a treadmill and the overwhelming urge to run on it between 10:30-midnight each night. I am in possession of this knowledge because our studio apartments are small and not terribly soundproof; the creaky hardwood tells no lies. So for roughly 90 minutes every night, my windows rattle and my ceiling sounds like someone is beating on it with a shovel.
Rhythmically. With a charming whirring sound droning in the background. (…Did I mention this is every goddamn night?)
But wait! There’s more! As if the shovel-beating and window-banging in my only living space isn’t enough ambiance as I wind down in the evening, the treadmilling also comes complete with a soundtrack of shitty music that somehow — and I guess I’m just this lucky — happens to make itself heard over the thump, and the drone, and the rattle.
So. There’s that.
The voice of reason in my head suggests that either I go upstairs and have a polite word, or I play some music or put in earplugs to mask the noise.
The head voice that thinks I live in a sitcom wonders how difficult it would be to break into her apartment and see just what it sounds like when the treadmill is beaten by an *actual* shovel.
But the voice that’s currently making its case the loudest is urging me to dig around in my closet until I locate the mostly broken and entirely out-of-tune violin I’ve had since I was 10, then park myself outside Upstairs Neighbor’s door and saw out a rousing version of “Fuck You, You Inconsiderate Beast” in D Major.
(For the record, I’m guessing that would come out sounding a lot like a mashup of the Olympic Theme and the theme from Police Academy, which are the only two songs I can remember learning back in the glory days of 1988.)
Keep the arts in public schools, ladies and gentlemen. You never know when they’ll come in handy.
