Diggery-Don't

I have lived with a lot of different folks over the years. For a while when I was in college in South Carolina my roommates and I referred to ourselves as the four D's: The Debutant, The Dwarf, The Dirty Whore and The Dyke (that's me). We were all self-described D's except for The Debutant, who preferred "high society" or "classy" or the worst, "normal."

My second roommate ever was named Laureli and she had a 1.0 GPA, wore her ROTC fatigues 24/7 and once attacked me in her sleep while I was crawling into the upper bunk of our bed. Her boyfriend was an engineering nerd and had programmed every electronic device in the room to be operated by my graphing calculator. He did this without telling me.

I have lived with all kinds of other queer folk, drug users, exhibitionists, radicals, conservatives, lovers, partners, men, women and everything in between. But no one has ever pissed me off quite like my new downstairs neighbors.

My current troubles started one morning when I was home from work. I heard a few thuds and the crash of symbols. A tinny beat started up and bam-ta-tin-tinned it's way up to my coffee mug. Then came the electronic whom-whom-whomp of an amped bass guitar. I had been living in the apartment for about two weeks and this was the first time I had heard my downstairs neighbors jam. I was thankful that they had been mindful enough to practice during the day while I was at work because, to be blunt, the music is really bad. It is worse than modern jazz.

Do you know the scene in the first Starwars trilogy where Hans, Luke and Obi-one go down into the nightclub and some funny-looking aliens are playing weird music? Yeah, it is just like that.

I was content to let bygones be bygones, I mean I don’t want to begrudge anyone their right to artistic expression. But, eventually, they stopped limiting themselves to playing while I was at work. It is not unusual now for me to come home, make dinner, sit down to eat and then loose my appetite when I hear the drummer warm up with a few high-hats.

I HATE THIS MUSIC.

The two of them know and play ONE song together. It is a horrible song. It should be stricken from the face of the earth. Additionally, one of them owns a ukulele. Yes, a ukulele. When they have finished their little impromptu set, which always sounds just as bad as the set before, one of them picks up the damn ukulele and plays the exact same song, every time. ERRR.

After one week of being serenaded by the two of them every other evening at increasingly later hours of the night I finally resorted to something I had never imagined myself doing: pounding on the floor. After I stomped my feet hard in a ridiculous frustration dance akin to the rapid feet flurries my mom did to her Jane Fonda video when I was a kid the music fuddered, faded and paused for about 2 beats. Then without listening for a second thumping the drummer did a little stick-stick-stick to re-establish the beat and on again they fucking went. I thudded again but there was no more pausing.

Two Wednesday's ago at 11:30 PM I finally called the landlord. I had been home sick all day and had to work the next morning. They were throwing a party and playing shitty music. After talking to the landlord they turned it down, but not off.

The last straw: last Saturday I was lounging in bed in the early afternoon when I heard a low ddddddrrrrr sound. I thought to myself, "Ah, someone is running a power tool somewhere." And I envisioned my neighborhood alive with weekend home repair projects. It made me think of families and how I might have my have house and family some day.

But the ddddrrrrrr-ddddddrrrrr-dddddddddddddrrrrr-dr-dr-dr kept on. Then it got louder and more confident.

I thought to myself, "Man, that sounds like a diggery-do." Then a few notes later, "Fuck, that IS a diggery-do." Finally, outloud, "Those fuckers bought a goddamn, motherfucking diggery-do.”

While I laid in bed and listened to the diggery-do I was overcome with the urge to cut a hole in the floor of my apartment and take a shit down into their apartment. I fantasized my poop-bomb landing on their bong, or smashing into a high-hat and dripping down the side of the amp. I thought of how fun it would be to shit on their stuff every time they left the house, then close the little hole back up so that no one would really know where the shit had come from.

This maybe the grossest thing I have ever fantasized doing to someone. But, I figure, they have claimed their right to shit music so, I am claiming my right to shit fantasies.