A moment after I knocked on apartment five's door the music quieted and I could hear a shuffling of footsteps approaching.
The door crept open; standing in the doorway was my neighbor a heavier set woman probably in her thirties; she had a pink bathrobe stretched around her and her long blond hair hung in clumps past her shoulders, obviously showering was not on her agenda for the day as it was nearly three in the afternoon. Under one arm was a Kemp's brand one gallon bucket of cookies n' cream ice cream; half eaten with a spoon lodged into it, under her other arm was a box of tissues. Several tissues were wadded up and spilling out of the bathrobe's bulging pockets and she was clutching some in her left hand.
A feeling of awkwardness washed over me as the irritation I had felt melted away to be replaced with sympathy; she looked as though she had been crying for hours. I had come over to ask her to turn her music down; she had been listening to Micheal Jackson's Thriller album on repeat for the last four albums at an excruciating volume and I was growing tired of smooth dance beats and catchy lyrics.
I kindly explained to her that her music was too loud and that I was trying to study and she appeared to consider what I was requesting occasionally looking up from her feet and nodding in between sniffles.
When I had finished my request I asked her if she was doing OK; she replied with a half smile and said
“I am mourning Micheal”
I told her that I was sorry for her loss; this was a preprogrammed response I have for situations such as these, and asked her if Micheal was her relative, friend or something to that affect.
Her mood snapped into that of shock and disgust. She looked into my eyes.
“Micheal Jackson. The king of pop. He died.”
This was old news to me; Micheal Jackson had died two days previous.
An awkward, stale silence hung in the hallway; I was trying desperately to hold back my laughter; 'this lady is fucking crazy' I thought to myself as I waited for some sort of punchline or perhaps an explanation that she was in-fact kidding me; it didn't happen and I must not have been hiding my amusement very well because she rolled her eyes at me and slammed the door.
As I walked back into my apartment I could hear her music clearer than ever as the track “Beat it” blasted from across the hall.
- Sam Luoma
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