Sweet Revenge

I never thought I would miss the crazy old woman who used to live next door. She was ninety-two, deaf as a turnip, and would water other people’s flowers, but in general she was pretty quiet as she went about her shenanigans. Anyway, she croaked a couple of months ago, and then the Loud People moved in.

YIKES I miss that lady.

Everything these new people do involves noise. I’ve NEVER heard such sounds coming from children before. They do this sort of high pitched shrieking thing, like rodents dying in a trap. I know these are merely yelps of joy as they toss the ball thither and yon in fits of childish pleasure but I tell you these aren’t human sounds. My ears bleed and spontaneously shred as I lunge for calming drugs.

And Mom and Dad don’t just have a party, they have a Par-Tay. Cars line the street. Boomboxes boom. ATVs zoom over. Keggers clang off metal trucks. Lindsay Lohan touches down on her helipad. The laughing crazy aunt is always welcome, along with her coterie of insane sisters who howl over shish kabob and vicious clear drinks. “Kee-riste that was funny, tell it again Joey, I LOVE that joke!! Raa hah hah haaaaaagh!!!”

Even their food is loud. I can hear it from my hiding place under the bed. Sizzling beef. Snapping cans of beer, popping wines. HEY, ANYBODY WANT SOME MORE BURGERS? WHO WANTS WINGS? GIMME A HEAD COUNT ON DOGS! HEY JOEY, SHUT THE HELL UP AND GO GET THE ICE!

And so on.

Then, when everyone has driven home drunk and the yelping whelps are all tucked into their creaking bunks, I roll over in bed in my new hell on earth (formerly: home) sighing, thanking the Lords of Loud that I am free of the Cacaphonics for one more day.

Just as I am reaching that sweet point of pre-sleep where I have just about worked through all my levels of denial and despair (“it can’t be as bad as you think, you’re such a sensitive flower; everyone has parties! They’re only children, stop praying for their death, come on, they’ll have to move out someday…") when a pitiful wailing sound snakes in through the screen and actually skewers my head like an olive…I get up and look out the window…

…and here is where I learn about my new neighbor’s sensitive side: he’s an ASPIRING FOLK SINGER! Yes, dear reader, he’s outside on his picnic table howling at the moon and raking at the acoustic while wifey, cross-legged at his feet, bangs at a hammered dulcimer. They sing like two feral cats in a bag.

 And then I die a little inside, again.

But these past few days have brought fresh hope. What frequent calls to the police have failed to quell, perhaps crazy fate will soon address.

My stepson, who lost his job and has had to move back home for the summer, had a heart-to-heart with me the other day. He said he wants to go back to school and study law, but that he also can’t seem to let go of a lifelong dream of becoming a drummer in a rock ‘n roll band. Problem was, he’d only be able to practice in our garage during the early morning hours. The garage that faces our neighbors’ bedroom windows…and so…how would I feel about that?

I only had two questions for him: did he have an electric bass I could get my hands on? And did he know anything by Motorhead?

Look out, Framingham, it’s going to be a long, hot summer…