11-B: The Noisy Neighbor

Chapter 1Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Always early to bed and early to rise, the plan to settle beneath the covers forty-five minutes ahead of the usual quarter past nine seemed like a right good idea at the time. The accompanying hope had been to conk out before the blasted noise started again in apartment 11-B. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Too late. For five bloody days in a row, several times each one, as the shagging began, so too did a needling urge to march right around the corner to ring the neighbors’ doorbell and confront the inconsiderate gits. “Hi, Warwick Jayne.” The British accent, he’d been told, made him sound intelligent and friendly. “Spelled W-a-r-w-i-c-k, pronounced War-rick.” The name thing was something Warwick had to explain all the time since moving across the pond. One unusual time back in his native Great Britain always came to mind when he did, though. Always did and always would, Warwick hoped. “The second W is silent,” Warwick would say to 11-B, trying to be as charming as he’d been told he was then. He’d also be forceful this time. “And speaking of silent…” Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. “How about you give that a go, so I can get some blasted sleep!” Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Warwick would have pulled out his hair by now, had it not just grown back to a desirable length after he’d shaved it all off. Contacts turned out to be a bit of a bother, so he’d decided to alternate between those and glasses, but the scruffy beard was likely a permanent thing, now. A fresh start, whether Warwick wanted it or not, seemed to require a fresh look. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. And unfortunately, also new neighbors. The annoyance always began with the unmistakable bouncing of bed springs, a rhythmic up and down. The shimmy, grind, and rattle of the old window AC unit set to high cool on a muggy August night couldn’t even drown it out. Warwick hated the heat. He’d thought an ocean breeze would keep the city cool. Problem was, there was no ocean breeze so far inland, certainly not on the eleventh floor. Sometimes, Warwick wondered why he was still in Boston at all. In The Colonies, even. Lawrence, the love of Warwick’s life and also a Yank, always chuckled when Warwick referred to The United States as such. It was a sound oh so much more pleasurable than the one coming from next door. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. And boy, did Warwick miss it. The squeak was slow at first, gentle and soft, like the pair in 11-B, whoever they were, had just segued from quiet tender kisses, sensual tickling, and seductive caressing to gentle but passionate f*****g. Before long, it would amplify in both volume and speed. EEE-ER-EEE-ER-EEE-ER-EEE-ER! And after a little bit of that, or maybe a lot, depending on the night, next came a pulsating Thud! Thud! Thud! The pound and vibration from that were right behind Warwick’s head. “In less than a week, I have to be up at half five!” he grumbled in that direction. An administrator at a prestigious Boston secondary school, at least for now Warwick was on summer break. The fall semester would mark Warwick’s tenth at the academy. He was hired the very first autumn he’d spent in the United States, fresh off a plane from the UK to live the rest of his life with a wonderful man. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Warwick wondered if they’d ever made so much noise when they’d f****d. When they’d made love. “Lawrence…” It was difficult not to think of him at times, especially at night. They’d purchased a house together on an acre of land. A house paid off and then later sold. If the neighbors there could hear them, it wasn’t due to proximity, but rather passion. Quite easily, quite fondly, Warwick recalled several occasions when he wouldn’t have been surprised if someone a quarter mile down the road had complained about the moaning, grunting, and slapping of hot, sweaty body parts intense enough to resonate throughout the entire Boston suburb they’d inhabited. “Good times.” “I remember.” “I never should have left you,” Warwick said. “I’m glad you did.” The maddening present was easier to handle than the temporarily joyous but now painful past, so Warwick focused in on the sounds next door instead of the conversation he made up and repeated perpetually in his head. No s*x noises came from 11-B. Eee-er, eee-er. It was just the bed. Warwick and Lawrence’s bed never sounded like that. Neither did the one Warwick tried to sleep alone in now, so new it was still under warranty. The two new neighbors had likely already worn out both their box springs and warranty by misuse, not time. Thud! Thud! Thud! The headboard against the common wall between the two apartments was like a bass drum in a parade. The beat it provided wasn’t part of a Sousa march, however, but rather a percussion accompaniment to an erotic obligato, an instrumental ode to a passionate duet, even without high-pitched shrieks of ecstasy or manly, breathless grunting that would have added the vocals. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. The melody was obvious to anyone who’d ever had s*x. Admittedly, it had been a while for the one listening to it now, the one who knew little about musical terminology or any genre outside pop before Lawrence. “I’d never known love, either. And likely never will again.” “Ah, Warwick, but you must.” Lawrence was dramatic like that, his proclamations always definitive and eloquent, despite the Bostonian and other regional inflections that comingled in his speaking voice. Warwick had made the bed springs bounce with only one man since leaving Lawrence and ruining everything. “Not even,” he decided. Thud! Thud! Thud! Some nights, over the past five, the reverberation and resonance was enough to make Warwick feel as if he were part of a threesome. “Come on!” He huffed and sat up. “Something must be done.” If the neighbors could hear him f*****g, he’d want to know. Remembering the guy he’d brought back to 11-A, Warwick turned toward the wall. “Wouldn’t I?” Buzz! Not part of the s*x next door, that was the sound of the security buzzer downstairs, the one that signaled as someone entered or exited the building. Originally zoned for business, the renovated space downtown was eighteen stories high with four dwellings per floor. It was as different from Warwick and Lawrence’s brick and white clapboard two story, three bedroom, two bath colonial as possible, and that was part of the appeal. The apartments had an industrial ambiance, the units and hallway replete with exposed steel beams at the ceiling and glossy black speckled tile on the floors. The color scheme was drab but somehow chic, everything in black, dark gray, and brushed matte chrome. The indoors was quite dichotomic to the splendor of green leaves and multi-colored petals in the lush landscaped courtyard outside Warwick’s kitchen window. He was looking forward to the oranges, yellows, and burnt reds of autumn just around the corner. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Thud! Thud! Thud! Buzz! “Forget bloody autumn! One more bleeding day and night of nearly constant next door naff neighbor nookie might be too much to bear, let alone another six weeks!” he almost shouted. “Naff neighbor nookie.” Yes, Lawrence would have liked that. He always made note when Warwick dropped American slang and loved it even more when he bitched and moaned with the power of dual citizenship. * * * * Eight months almost to the day of his first in 11-A, Warwick had caught the arrival of his new neighbors in 11-B on a small square surveillance monitor mounted at his front door. Grainy images of their stuff being hauled in—furniture, luggage, and box after box—kept him riveted as it was shoved, dragged, and carried by three men in fluorescent orange coveralls reminiscent of the kind prisoners wore on the telly. Different witty apropos song references appliqued onto the fabric at the movers’ upper backs tickled him. We like to move it, move it; Movin’ on up; Moves like Jagger; and Something in the way she moves, Warwick understood and recognized every one. The movers’ clever advertising convinced him to jot down the digits under the song lyrics. He thought he might want to hire them to pack up his things should he ever go back to the UK. When he went back. The new neighbors owned a piano, a funky bright yellow upright two of the movers scraped across the whole length of the hallway’s main wall. Warwick reconsidered using them then. Obviously, the mover, movers were cleverer than they were diligent and careful. * * * * Four days, five nights, and counting, Warwick had yet to hear a single note come from the piano next door. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Bloody 11-B’s new inhabitants were obviously too busy making love to make music. A pair of cameras down in the lobby, one right at the main entrance to the building, and one at the elevator, captured the building’s goings on. Another part of the security system, it made sense one would want to know who was requesting access before deciding whether or not to buzz them in. Buzz! The open door alert seemed loud as f**k at times, though still less annoying than the unrelenting loud ass f*****g next door. The alarm was a security feature, after all, to let anyone know when someone was coming or going. Coming likely the more important of the two. Renters had to punch in a code to enter from the outside. All others—visitors, movers, maintenance, delivery people—had to be granted access from someone in residence. A sensor opened the door automatically for anyone looking to exit, but the buzzer still sounded. Like the hourly chime of a grandfather clock or loud crickets on a summer night in the suburbs, as startling as it had been at first and still could be once in a while, in no time at all, Warwick had learned to tune it out more often than not, which rather defeated the purpose, he now supposed. On the other hand, the chances of anyone coming to visit him were slim. “You spend far too much time alone.” Another Lawrence proclamation Warwick often imagined hearing, once in a while, he would have sworn he actually could. “Well, that’s your fault, now, isn’t it?” Warwick took a breath, then tried to take back the thought. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.” The building came with other sounds as well, not even counting those s****l in nature. The elevator had an iron scrollwork gate that slid across the automatic main door by hand. It screeched when pulled forward or shoved back. Rather like nails on a chalkboard at first, it was yet again something else that mostly went unnoticed now. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. Warwick sighed. If the perpetual honeymooners kept it up long-term, perhaps he could eventually get used to their thrice or more daily shagging, too. Thud! Thud! Thud! Unfortunately, their sounds conjured feelings, and feelings were harder to ignore than sounds. Buzz! Tenants were coming home after a day out, Warwick figured. Or possibly just going to blow off steam and have fun, perhaps just to dinner. Normal people weren’t ready to pack it in for the day at eight p.m. Most people weren’t ready to pack it in for good at age thirty-six. “Don’t think like that!” “I’ll get a pet…or a hobby,” Warwick told Lawrence in thought. Thud! Thud! Thud! “On the other hand, I’m not the only one in bed. Just the only one in mine.” The gender matchup of the pair next door was a mystery. Obviously, the s*x was a two-person event. Warwick had seen a bloke enter 11-B right behind the movers. Right behind. Literally. He followed the last mover in line so closely, there was fear they might collide. “Maybe they’re the boisterous bangers.” “Ha! I love it even more when you combine American with something British and make it dirty.” Not large in stature, the close follower moved big, Warwick had noticed right from the get-go. Possibly the tenant, possibly not, all Warwick saw were black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a long black trench coat, which indicated this particular fellow likely wasn’t a mover, mover. At least he wasn’t dressed like the others, and once inside, he hadn’t left for as long as Warwick had watched the rest of that day and several since. “Hopefully, no one will ask me how I spent my summer vacation. ‘Oh, ya know. Spying on my neighbors, listening to them have s*x, and talking to myself in my head.’” “You’re talking to me.” “I’m not sure that’s any better.” “It’s better for me than when you weren’t.” The bloke not in coveralls had carried only garment bags, one in each hand. He didn’t just carry his load; he performed with it. He swung both bags side to side and raised them up and down with every step, often moving his head, his entire upper torso, really, at the same time. Every movement had a flourish, almost as if just walking was choreography and the garment bags he toted were his dance partners. His hair was really dark, with just a few tips of gray here and there, the beard he sported more salt and pepper. Full, bushy eyebrows so black they looked like the thirty-six sharps and flats keys on the piano that had gone in earlier or noteheads without a stem were as animated as the bloke himself. The new arrival to 11-B was a handsome one, for sure, a distinguished looking, slightly older virile gentleman who could apparently f**k for hours several times per day. “Not that I noticed.” Lawrence had a way of saying, “Um-hmm,” that made it perfectly clear he couldn’t disagree more. Warwick hadn’t seen the next door newbie coming or going at all since that first day, five gone by now. Eee-er, eee-er, eee-er. After all the coming he did at home, it would only make sense the chap was too tired to go anywhere. Maybe all he could do when not shagging was rest up for next time. Thud! Thud! Thud! With the thinnest sheetrock ever developed and little insulation to absorb sound, with studs no doubt about to crack and splinter from bedroom furniture thrusting into them, Warwick half expected the coital cantata participants to come busting right through to end up beside him in his bed. “Be one hell of a way to meet the new neighbors, eh?” “At least you’d be meeting someone. Interacting again.”