Joe got lucky, is why.
But first, let me digress. I spent the evening watching bits and pieces of the Grammy's while channel-skipping between it and some psychic-detective programs on BIO and an investigative report on ID about that little blond chick who went missing from Aruba.
There was nothing on last night.
Did anybody else watch the Grammies? Cause I got questions. I mean, at my age, I'm no longer up (or down) on what is hip (or hot or cool or phat or whatever). I like different stuff.
But I really have some questions. Like, when did Tina get old, man? Those legs ain't working like they used to. And did she have a facelift? And pairing her with Beyonce? That little girl is an amber-colored
Donna McKechnie without the full technique. Well, at least, the old pro still had the pipes.
Speaking of old, why was Ringo there? All that "fab" falling from his lips sure showed me how old I was. At least, my feelings about Cirque du Soleil were reinforced. It's creepy.
And did you know Kanye West's mama just died recently? Wasn't that her in the background, flapping her wings? Dear sweet Jesus, don't ever let me dry-hump my dead mama like he did his. On an up note, however, I want that coat he was wearing.
Then, finally, there was Amy Winehouse. I'd never heard her music. I'd never seen her perform. I'd only ever seen really bad pictures of her. Last night, though, I thought, that she was a sweet-looking girl. I liked her street-fair ink. I thought she had a nice voice. I liked her music. She reminded me of a ragamuffin Barbra Streisand (sorry for the redundancy). I wanted to take her in my big strong arms like all the other dudes on that stage did and tell her everything was gonna be all right, baby, papa's here to take care of you.
But maybe that was just the enabler in me coming out.
Finally, at ten, I called it quits and trundled up the stairs to bed. Where it was really hot.
Let me explain.
A few years ago, our building went high-tech with central air and heat. The people who installed those things put our electronic gadget downstairs next to the front door. Normally, that should not be a problem. Except, you see, living in the French Quarter, the chances are really good that the place you live in is a few hundred years old; and the people back then didn't have that pink insulation stuff. So this kind of placement is not a wise move in these late times, what with all the global warming and shit.
So if we set the thermometer to 70 degrees, it stays 70 degrees downstairs, but it'll get to 90 or more upstairs. And that's what it did last night. I was miserable. I kicked the comforter off. I kicked the sheet off. But since I can't sleep unless I'm covered up, I just tossed and turned in a sweaty, soupy morass.
So I went downstairs and turned on the TV again. I can't sleep without the TV on. And soon I did. I mean, I fell asleep.
Until around one in the morning when my next-door neighbor Joe came home from wherever he had been that night. And he was not alone. He sat outside in the patio for a while and passed a good time with his friends. But, you see, living in the French Quarter, the chances are really good that the place you live in is a few hundred years old; and the people back then didn't have that pink insulation stuff, so you can hear what people are saying outside your living room window. And, since Joe was talking some good shit, I stopped watching TV and started listening to him. I listened to him for about an hour till he said it was getting on to time for him to hit the sack. And I turned my attention back to what was flickering on the television set.
I dozed off soon after.
Until the knocking started. Not the door. The walls. The walls! Joe and his girlfriend were doing it again. I didn't know that when he had said good night earlier he had literally meant to "hit the sack".
Joe and his girlfriend are in their late twenties, so they go at it pretty frequently. You'd think it would be fun to be Joe's neighbor, but here's the thing.
Joe and his girlfriend are white; and if you and your girlfriend are white, you know what it's like living in a tiny apartment, always aware that there are neighbors on the other sides of those walls, neighbors who'll be pressing their ears into little glasses pressed against those walls, listening to your dirty words. So you don't say those words. You just do it.
Joe's problem - or, rather, mine, is this: Joe sleeps downstairs in his living room on a little sofa bed he has pushed up against his right-side wall. What's the problem? His right-side wall is the left-side wall of my stairwell. And, living in the French Quarter, the chances are really good that the place you live in is a few hundred years old; and the people back then didn't have that pink insulation stuff, so you can hear it all really good when your neighbors are doing it.
So I'm just lying on the barcalounger, listening to a hip-hop suite of knock, knock, knock-knock, KNOCK, knock-KNOCK, knock-KNOCK ...
Once I finally begin to catch on to the rhythm, it all goes eerily quite. When you're young and white, it doesn't take that long.
This late at night (or, rather, this early in the morning), there's really nothing on on TV - even with over two-hundred cable channels; so I just sit there, waiting to hear the faint sonorities of Joe's snores.
When they finally start snuffling through, I pull myself up and tramp off into the kitchen. I find my old wooden-handled hammer and walk back into the living room. I climb the stairs where I search for the little nail that has dropped out of the wall and onto the carpet, and I rehang my poster of Anita Ekberg dancing in
La Dolce Vita.
Sorry, Joe. Did I wake you?
Vicky-with-a-"Y"
