June 15, 2013
A somewhat meek policeman
appears in a black SUV, at the end of the day, to give me the third degree
about the upstairs neighbors. He squeezes past Tyrus into the sun porch to
continue his inquiry. Apparently there have been several calls of complaint
about the disturbance streaming down from the unit above me. Each time the
officers choose to come investigate, the street is as quiet as the Stepford
Wives’ territory. I can only relay my side of the story.
I dispatch the tale of an
incident late last Sunday, when I was forced to listen to a screaming match seeping
through the floors, horrible stomping and shouts, threatening to tear down the
siding. I explained I was careful to determine whether the children were home,
and if the situation was accelerating to violence. Since neither were
positively identified, I assumed it would blow over. A few minutes later the silence
took over. I declared I had been torn with anxiety, not certain what was a best
response.
The next day or two, I
informed him, the neighbor on my left showed up at my door to introduce
herself. I asked her about her experiences in the area since she has lived here
for over six years. She let me know it is “always so loud,” which I found an
extraordinary comment since most often, there isn’t a soul in sight from one
end of the street to another. Later I consider the terrific fight and assume
she was referring to the booming male voice of Sunday evening.
The pocked cop listened
carefully to the discourse of occurrences and scribbled down his phone number
for me. Pete suggested he would stop by in a few weeks to check in on me. I
implied this is all a mute point since the family upstairs is planning on
moving out soon. The landlord is obviously informed of the troubles. They are
being “encouraged” to leave the house as soon as possible.
The pieces slowly fall
into place and I sympathize with the women and children temporarily residing
above my head. I can only guess they are in cahoots with Trouble, Police
Incident Reports and Life Challenges and pray they can turn things around with
some support. JJ, the sweet and precious four year old, who fears her father’s
reaction to having clear lip gloss applied is truly a victim of sorry circumstance.
She could only smear gloss on my lips and pat my face with foundation powder as
I prepare to meet my friend for dinner. She seemed to enjoy her time with me,
listening to Blueberries for Sal, Angelina Ballerina and Angelina’s
Birthday Surprise as I read them aloud. I am only sorry we haven’t gotten to
the Shel Silverstein books. Perhaps we will have the opportunity before they
move out on the 22nd. Next
time I see JJ, I will hug her hard for no reason at all.
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