Wake-Up Call

…believe what Janet tried to pull. No. I know! It’s not going to sit well with management, either.…

Really, 5C? Are you serious? You have lived here for a long time—longer than we have, at least. Thus, you have lived in this building long enough to understand how sound travels in the bathroom. The moment you go near that tub, it’s as if all walls and floors were to melt away, leaving you sitting in our bathroom, yelling into that phone.

You know what time it is, I presume? It’s 5:25. That’s not the fun evening 5:25, when people are trickling out of work into the romantic twilight. It’s the weird morning one that generally exists without me.

Do you know who is awake at 5:25 in the morning? The jetlagged, the elderly, travelers kicking themselves for having booked unwise flights, easily bullied types with poorly socialized children or pets, the freshly Oscar-nominated, exurbanites staring down long commutes, physical education teachers, club kids hitting a second wind, child practitioners of esoteric sports, Al Roker, my Uncle Sol, our nation’s more competent newspaper deliverymen, and bakers abiding by cliché. And now, thanks to your arguably immoral decision to take a phone call in the bathroom, me.

So, how do we proceed? If it’s not obvious by now, I respond poorly to both sleeping pills and earplugs. I think we both would agree that I’m not going to march upstairs at this hour and lodge a complaint. Slipping a note beneath your door seems so passive aggressive. If I knock on the ceiling with a broom handle, it will wake my wife—who, as you may have heard, would not hesitate to murder me, her parents, and the populace of lower Manhattan in exchange for a good night’s rest.

Might this be a situation worthy of the city’s 311 complaint line? “Good morning operator, there is a woman loudly gossiping from her bathroom, which she knows is poorly insulated for noise. The suspect is in her early 50s, stands in tense silence while riding an elevator, occasionally wears heels while walking on hardwood floors, and apparently has a work rival named Janet. Really? You can dispatch the police…oh, wait. I hear their sirens now! And the officers will handle the arrest in a quiet manner so as not to wake my wife?”

Realistically, we both know such a call is out of the question. After all, this is your first major offense. But as the minutes tick on, my chances of returning to sleep grow ever slimmer. And so, despite the chill in the air and my own environmental concerns, I now rise from bed to turn on the air conditioner, whose clunky purr should drown out your inane blather. Make no mistake, I may be awake for good, effectively ruining my entire….

…scars of your love they leave me breathless—MATTHEW, DID YOU SEE MY BLUE SHIRT?—I can’t help feeling we could have had it all, rolling in the….

Et tu, 4B? Already this morning, I have been smiled upon by the gods of sleep, who benevolently allowed me to drift off so soon after 5C’s interruption. I should not get greedy. Nonetheless, 4B, why must we continue this ugly morning dance?

We share a thin bedroom wall but so little else. On the east side of this wall, for instance, we sleep until at least 9:30. You west siders wake at 7:15 prompt. We are considerate beings, quiet as mice in the evening hours when we suspect others to be asleep. You, by contrast, are callous noise terrorists, conveniently oblivious. My wife and I met in college. You, Loud Matthew and Rick of the Booming Voice, could only have met at a support group for New Yorkers who grew up along airport tarmacs. I cheer the legalization of gay marriage, if only for the opportunity to witness your nuptials:

“Do you, Rick of the Booming Voice, take this man, Loud Matthew, as your husband, to have and to hold?”

“I DOOOOOOO!!!!” [Glass shatters; an elderly guest faints; the reverend clings to his toupee as it threatens to blow away.]

I take issue with those scolds who view a later schedule as some sign of sloth, yet realize that the seven o’clock hour is widely considered an acceptable time to rise. Still, your insistence on placing a stereo directly opposite our bed is mystifying: feng shui as practiced by jerks. And while the volume of your voices is certainly—

Hmmpharghhhhaghghmmh. Loud Matthew and Rick of the Booming Voice are at it again.

Okay, now you’ve done it. My wife is awake.

Can you go talk to them?

Please, dear lord, do not make me get out of bed, put on pants, and knock on that door like some schoolmarm pest. Understand that were I not so comfortably sprawled, I would be on my hands and knees, begging mercy.

We have to say something or they’re going to do this every morning. Please. Can’t you go talk to them?

Sorry, 4B, but orders are orders.

Upon moving next door, you did examine my CV, right? Note that over the past dozen years, I have been dispatched to file noise complaints to beefy Wall Street types on East 28th (TV), a pan-Asian restaurant directly beneath our bedroom on Second Avenue (New Age music), a kindly autistic man on West 15th Street (hallway pacing; boots), and, also on West 15th, four college undergraduates crammed into two rooms (unrepentant, all-around vileness). I concede that you, Loud Matthew and Rick of the Booming Voice, reside on the less egregious end of this loutish spectrum. To a hardened nag such as myself, this renders you hapless putty to mold and crush at will. I must stand before you neighborly yet firm: stern, frank, and fearless in the face of any protests. Yes, I may sacrifice future elevator repartee regarding the fickle weather. But if frosty hallway greetings are the price of silence, then so be it. Let’s roll! Hooyah!

Oh, um, hi, Rick, sorry to bug you guys, but, would you, in the morning, it’s just that we sleep a little later than you, and, it’s not your fault at all—these walls are so thin—and would you maybe mind maybe turning your stereo—

MY GOSH, OF COURSE. I’M SO SORRY. MATTHEW! CAN YOU TURN THE MUSIC DOWN? I’M SO SORRY WE WOKE YOU! OH MY GOD!

So, that went well! My wife is sleeping like a sweet, uncomplaining angel. 5C is at work, no doubt dealing with the dastardly Janet. The music has subsided, and Rick of the Booming Voice even seems to have adopted a whisper. It is as if we uplifted the apartment and moved to the countryside. It’s just that peaceful.

There goes the alarm.