Unlikely Disappointment

I'm realizing, with a certain ironic sinking feeling, that the person with the U-Haul parked out front may be my upstairs neighbor. It seems odd that I should be disappointed, given that I've secretly been referring to him as Gordon Leadfoot for the past twelve months, but I've gotten used to his rhythms. I know when he's going to be around. And all in all, despite having his buddies over for long weekends once in a while and playing his Pink Floyd albums, he's really quiet during the week. He's not one of those people that has their TV on 24/7, a habit which I loathe, and, even better, he doesn't have a TV in the bedroom which he keeps on all night like our downstairs neighbors do.

I'm not sure if that's him down there or not, given that the one Sunday morning we'd asked him to turn off his amps it was actually just Jim that went up there, not me. Jim pointed him out to me once when we were walking down the block to the subway, but only after he'd passed, so I only really saw the back of him. He was a little stooped, had kind of thick legs. This guy down in front of the building putting his tiny CD player (no, Gordon wouldn't have had a CD player that tiny) into the U-Haul is a little stooped, has kind of thick legs.

Well, I just heard him laugh Gordon's unmistakable laugh. That seals it. My heart is breaking. I'd been content, almost happy, about the way my life was currently arranged. Yeah, I won't hear him stomping around anymore, I won't have to leave on Saturday afternoons for the weekly jam session (I actually looked forward to those; they got me out of the house). But there will follow a long month of the frantic sounds of cheap renovation, and then the miserable possibility of someone worse. A nonstop TV hound, with surround sound. Someone with lots of friends who are always over. Someone who watches TV all night long. Someone who has loud parties. A couple. A couple with kids. A couple with a dog. A couple with kids and a dog. Someone whose work schedule is completely identical to mine. A jerk. Jim and I had just been talking about how lucky and grateful we felt that we didn't live adjacent to the one jerkwad on the floor, a slightly over the hill fratty type who has his balding buddies over for late night drinks (I know this because the recycling room is filled the next day with empty bottles of the cheap liquor store wine of the wannabe-but-not-quite sophisticated). Under his door is usually a note written in broken English that includes the words "jerk" and "radio."

I guess I should have seen this coming. This cardboard shack of a tenant mill isn't the ideal place to live if you need a place for your band to practice. He was just so good otherwise, so quiet, so predictable. I'm in denial. It can't be him. I haven't heard anyone coming or going upstairs, yet I've seen him dragging boxes and mattresses and things outside. Sadly, I think they may have just taken everything downstairs earlier, while it was raining. I can't bear to look anymore.

If it's not him, I think I'm going to go upstairs later in the week and tell him how much we appreciate his quietness and discreet, limited noisemaking.