My neighbors were members of a Friday Night Bowling League.
For many, this is an acceptable way of life. Sensible people join a bowling league to gain some respite from the creeping existential dread of cramped New York City walls closing in around them. I get it.
My neighbors were different though. They ran their god-forsaken games directly out of the 465 square foot, one bedroom closet above me. I felt every thud, bang, and bump. Every hoot stabbed mercilessly through diaphanous flooring. Every holler drove me a step closer to losing my tenuous grip on reality. Every stomp-stomp bashed my brains to smithereens.
I still recall the moment they arrived——I can’t help it really, since the noise woke me at 3 AM and set me tossing in a fitful rage for two hours until it was time to surrender to the sound of my alarm and give up any hope of sleep.
BAM!
BOOM!
THUD!
Supernatural sounds from another dimension.
There’s a thought experiment that goes something like this:
Imagine you are an ant, living happily in your two dimensional world. You can see objects in front of you and behind you. Now let’s say you are scuttling along a desktop in search of a crumpet crumb and you see a stack of papers. Suddenly a fleshy creature lifts a piece of paper from the stack and slips it inside a folder. While the paper is still technically on the desk, your ant brain believes it has vanished. This is why you can’t perceive other dimensions—you are just not capable of it.
Except I could, of course.
My neighbors upstairs occupied a 19th dimension, I’m sure of it. A place far beyond the space time continuum normal humans inhabit. I’m talking disembodied sounds so clanging, so ear-rattling and bone-numbing they couldn’t possibly exist within the confines of the known three dimensions.
I could hear so many pounding footsteps I wondered if the North African elephant made its miraculous return from extinction just 10 feet above my head.
Now before you start thinking I’m prone to exaggeration, keep this in mind: I’m a pure-blooded New Yorker through and through. Blue to the last drop, in fact. I’ve been there for the Yankees during good times and bad. Even the 1990 season couldn't sway me. And...I’ve lived in just about every stinking rat-hole this city can conjure. Point being, don’t start thinking I’m some country yokel complaining about my neighbor’s footsteps interrupting my precious beauty sleep.
No.
The Stompsons were entirely unlike any other humans I’ve ever encountered.
There were, of course, the Friday Night Fortissimos filled with slamming, rolling balls and jackal laughter.
But then the Stompsons, without fail, celebrated Sweeper Saturdays too. The day every square inch of their apartment required the most thorough and time-consuming act of vacuum cleaning known to humankind. In all fairness, I don’t know the Average Sweeping Sequence time per New York apartment, but a good gun-to-my-head guess would be something less than 8 straight hours.
Most other days were mercifully silent, until I realized truly sadistic torturers subscribe to a psychological tactic known as, “intermittent suspension.” The basic idea has been around since the moment one man first strapped down another and beat him ‘til he gave up the ghost——you beat, pause, then you beat some more. Those gaps in time allow the victim to dread the next beating even more.
Musicians call these “rests” and use them to punch up climactic moments.
But there was little rest to be found. Most nights in their absence above me, I grasped my sheets with a vice-like post traumatic stress grip. The slightest clatter outside my window sent me into a pulse pounding, sweat dripping state of fear and anxiety.
One night, when the rolling balls and thunderous slams reached a menacing crescendo I could stand it no further. My eyes darted to my bedside clock. 3:03 AM. I finally reached the point where the fine line between madness and sanity began to blur and merge together to form a bleary sort of frenzy I can only hope to never experience again in this lifetime.
But what could I do?
I could grab a broom and knock on the ceiling.
No. What if I punched a hole through the crumbling, disgusting flooring that kept our two worlds apart, if only through physical separation? I may end up poking through into the other dimension they inhabit. I may find out where all the rolled balls go.
Instead I decided firm action was necessary. A stern, but friendly knock on the door might just be enough to shake them out of their furor and bring them back down to the world the rest of us must inhabit after midnight.
Yes, I decided, that’s all that was needed. I choreographed and cautiously rehearsed the sequence of events as I tip-toed up the stairwell to the Stompson’s floor.
As I pressed my trembling hands into the cold metal bar of the stairwell door I began to doubt myself.
The music, the talking, the ball rolling all grew louder——a feat I never would have guessed possible just 5 minutes prior. I knew at once I had stepped back into my old college dorm hallway. Late nights, long spinning halls. Guys named Chad towel-snapping me while other guys named Jason pointed and laughed.
I was right back in 1995. They managed to time travel me back to college. These assholes.
With a renewed feeling of confidence and rage, I powered my way to their door. I never felt so alive, electrified by a perpetual wrath-fueled generator taking in hate and feeding it right back out again for the world to gnaw on.
My right hand twisted into a wrecking ball. I knew at this point, if I wanted, I could raise this hand and with a mere tap I could blow the whole door off its rusted hinges. That would show them, wouldn't it. As I lifted my wrecking ball hand I pictured the door sailing straight through their living room and out the window. They’d all stop in shock and horror. The record needle would scratch and they’d all know exactly who they should never have messed with.
I found myself knocking. Softly at first, until the anger overpowered the fear and I hit the door with a fierce, rhythmic staccato of fist. I was no longer afraid of whatever was on the other side. It could be Jason, or even Chad. It could be Satan himself, standing there with cloven hooves and the acrid odor of sulfur dioxide mixed with the deafening screams of a million tortured souls calling out to me for salvation. I wouldn’t give a damn.
I could hear the deadbolt slide, and I knew there was no escape. No going back. In a panic I stepped out of my body and pressed against the wall, just out of view.
I watched as my lifeless husk stood hunched in the doorway while the door to my neighbor’s apartment steadily creaked open.
What would it say? What would it do?
I watched the face crinkle into a crazed, half-smile as a man stuck out a meaty fist to shake the husk’s cold hand.
“Don’t do it!” I cried out from the safety of my secret place.
I watched a hand slowly lift and grip the neighbor’s.
“You asshole!” I shouted. “Traitor! Maybe instead of shaking his hand you should punch his lights out!”
I had to jump back in and do something before this whole operation went off the rails.
I couldn’t.
“Loud. Past 3 AM.” grunted the husk.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Are we being too loud up here?”
“Yeah.”
Yeah? That’s it? What about the ball rolling? The constant vacuuming? The thumps? The slams? The booms? The shrieking laughter causing ceaseless nightmares?
But the door shut and I was in bed again, hating them even more. Here I was, the sensible-self back to my old ways of trying to get some rest again.
As I tossed and turned that night I strained to imagine some way I could finally rid myself of the Stompsons. My mano e mano approach failed. I somehow managed to let myself down. Again.
I heard the popping and crackling of tiny explosions followed by shouts and rolling skateboard wheels. I pulled back the blinds to see the street below. Just some neighborhood kids setting off roadside fireworks. The ones my parents always said would turn me paraplegic. I hated those kids. I thought about calling 911 but went back to bed instead.
Then came a soft knock at my door.
My god! Who could it be at this hour? The Stompsons finally decided to finish the job, I suspected. My chest ached with fear. My pulse exploded along with the rockets outside.
I whipped my duvet over my head and lied as still as my trembling body would allow.
The stranger at my door would not stop. My bedside clock ticked away the seconds. I counted each one, praying it’d overtake the sound of invasion.
But the knocks persisted. Steady, rhythmic. Each time three taps, followed by five seconds of silence. On and on it went until it left me no choice. My fear morphed into anger. Who did this asshole think he was?
I could stand it no more.
I crept to the door.
After a lengthy stare through the peephole, I pulled back the chain lock and slowly turned the handle.
The husk was there, waiting for me.
“I’m truly sorry,” it said. “I let you down, didn’t I?”
I just stood in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say exactly. I didn’t want it to feel bad, but sometimes it’s better to be honest with these things.
“You did,” I replied.
The husk stared back at me blankly. It didn’t blink. I didn’t blink.
“Well,” I said, tapping my right foot impatiently. I slowly crossed my arms, right over the left flexing as much as possible.
It stared back at me.
“Are you going back up or what?”
“Yes, but I’m going to need something first.” It slowly reached out one of its wobbly noodle arms and opened a hand.
I knew what I needed.
I returned to my room and shuffled through the nightstand drawer. Underneath it all, in the bottom back corner. Finally. A cool and tingling relief splashed over me, followed by a burning in my stomach. I shuffled back to the husk and placed a lighter in its open hand. The purple one, with a unicorn on it. The one from Chinatown an ex bought me last Christmas.
I watched its fingers delicately curl around the unicorn’s snout.
It turned away and ambled down my hall. I smiled for what felt like the first time in my life. A hot spark of energy flowed through my body.
Don’t let me down.
The husk took one plodding, deliberate step at a time. It had no reason for haste. It had just one thought flowing through its mind.
I know everything. I’m just as guilty as the husk. I put the purple unicorn in its hand. I loaded the gun. I cocked the hammer. It pulled the trigger.
Soon enough it reached its destination. It clicked the lighter again and again until a faint, flickering flame sparked to life. An arm extended like a telescope reaching upward. I had to admire its steadiness during the whole procedure. I would have been shaking uncontrollably.
Most systems contain a glass trigger filled with a glycerin-based liquid that expands at the appropriate temperature, breaks, and then activates the sprinkler head. It took a few seconds before the alarm mercifully sounded followed by a low, groaning moan thumping down through the walls.
I could hear people shouting, but I was a child underwater trying not to listen to the sounds of the grownups arguing above me. I dove deeper and deeper until I couldn’t make out the words anymore. I stopped and let myself remain motionless in the void, my thoughts numb to the scene unfolding around me. I felt an uncomfortable ease wash over my body. Flashing lights kaleidoscoped out of the corners of my eyes. Bright blues and reds all separated and converged simultaneously.
I watched the Stompsons stare at the husk. I saw the fear in their eyes. That was all I needed. A neighbor grabbed my arm and tried to pull me along but I couldn’t move. The sprinkler water felt so cool on my face. All my thoughts melted and mixed into a churning, gnashing pool of honey-colored tendrils winding their way around my feet. I felt so heavy. I had to summon the strength to move again. The effort, my God. But I laughed and wiggled my toes despite it all, feeling every single drop.
Born anew.
With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation.
I was free.
A few weeks later I worked up the courage to speak to a neighbor while I was getting my mail.
I felt part of me had gotten away with something, and the other half knew it. Guilt blended with shame, but mostly gave way to peace.
I asked if he knew what happened to the Stompsons upstairs. He didn’t know. No one knew.
Except me, of course.
I believe the husk had something to do with it. One look into those cold, dead eyes in the hallway in the middle of the night made them turn tail and head for slicker bowling lanes.
I barely knew what to do with myself. The freedom was intoxicating. Instead of staring at the clock for 8 hours, begging and making promises to countless deities for just one minute of sleep, I could now do anything and everything else.
That is why it pains me to tell you that just five merciless weeks after the Stompsons vacated their alley, there came a swift knock at my door.
An eager young couple stood before me with blinding white teeth and strained smiles. One of them held a bottle of cheap bordello, while the other nervously reached out a hand.
I thought about leaping away again, but I didn’t.
Not yet.
I took the hand and shook it limply. Even the husk had a better grip.
“Hi I’m Karen Popover and this is my husband Chad. We just moved in upstairs and couldn’t wait to meet our new neighbors!”