My next-door neighbor decided to watch a loud war movie at 4:30 in the morning. We both got to enjoy it thanks to the paper-thin walls of our apartment complex in West Campus.
I think it was a Michael Bay movie, or The A-Team, or something with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Whatever it was, it had lots of explosions, gunfire, and shouting—a nightmare for somebody with work at 8 am. (Although a nightmare might mistakenly imply that sleep is involved.)
As I lay in bed at 4:35, staring at the ceiling fan going round-and-round, a flurry of thoughts passed through my brain regarding this neighborly situation:
Something had to be done. But what? It was already 5 AM by now, and all of the thoughts in the world weren’t getting me any closer to sleep. And now it was 2 hours until my alarm. Crap.
The cops wouldn’t help. And that would take too long. I knew I had to go over and talk to this guy myself.
And so, after working up my courage—which took a few more minutes of self-encouragement—I walked out of my apartment and over to this asshole’s door.
I stepped outside into the cold—wearing nothing but my wonderful, free Housing Scout t-shirt and an old bathing suit (it’s laundry day, sue me)—and knocked hard on the door. I had to knock loudly enough so I could be certain that he heard me.
He opened the door, and we mumbled some neighbor-talk at (now) 5:30 AM.
I asked him to turn the movie down, and he drunkenly said that he didn’t realize it was so late. Or a Sunday night/Monday morning. Man, this guy needs to get his life together.
It’s now 6:30 and his movie finally ended. After that conversation, with adrenaline coursing through my veins, I’m more awake than ever. I realize now that I would have gotten more sleep if I had just laid in bed and waited for the movie to end. I should have said nothing. I hate myself.
Only 30 more minutes until the alarm goes off. Yay…