My neighbor across the hall was at it again last night. He loves to bring the whole damn bar back to his apartment for after-hours parties (some of you will remember this from my catbox perseverations last week). This is really starting to have a negative impact on my semester. The first time, I went over there and yelled. The second time, I went over there and yelled, and told him that the next time it happened I would call the police. I know that sounds harsh, but we're talking 3:30 in the morning, loud music, and loud drunk college kids. You remember how loud drunk college kids can get?
So last night, I'd just finished chapter 3 of Yet Another Book on Medieval Cathars, and was soooo sleepy. Turned off the light, snuggled down into my feather bed, pulled the down comforter up to my chin, and sighed that "Now, for my well-earned sleep" sigh. I fell asleep almost immediately, and woke up with a start about two hours later. Yep. Shithead Matt. Bringing home the bar. THe music gets cranked up. Some girl, also cranked up, is cawing on and on like a fucked up talking crow at some guy (apparently also cranked up) to get his hand off her ass. Matt, for some reason, is drunkenly bellowing "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER" and then laughing his ass off, over and over again. They tramp up and down the hallway, letting more people in.
I call the police. I get a RECORDING! "All 911 operators are currently on other calls." WTF. I could understand that if it was like, the night after a big game, but it's not. My buzzer goes off. Like I'm going to let one of those assholes in. But Matt's on it, Matt knows these walls are paper thin, mi buzzer es su buzzer, mi peace of fucking mind es su POFM. He lets this guy in and yells "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!" He starts his hyena laugh (I'm lying there flinching, waiting for it to hit the painful high notes) and then stops cold. Then there was weird breathing out there, really loud, like they're making out or screwing. This kind of surprises me, as Matt never struck me as a guy who could swing both ways, but whatever. Then a big thump. Someone is passed out in the hallway. Great.
Then Matt's door opens (momentary increase in volume of music and chattering) and then slams shut. Within five minutes the party volume has increased from drunk screeching to drunk screaming at the top of their lungs. I think the girl might have been actually really scared, but the guys sound like they're laughing. I call 911 again. Still no answer. I think about my fast-pitch bat, the one that looks like a cudgel. I think about the girl, and the way she said "GIT YOUR HAND OFF MY AAA-YASS" to some unseen and unheard guy earlier. There have got to be ten men in there with her. I'm ashamed to admit this now, but I didn't go over. She was one of those girls who come home with Matt and half a bar. Am I going to risk my actual neck fighting ten drunk men for her virtue? The answer is kind of in the question.
But I do call 911 again. Still a recording. I'm still trying to decide how I'm going to do whatever it is I'm going to do to when it goes real quiet over there. Real quiet. Too quiet. Whatever was going on in there has happened. It's too late. I double-check the locks and get back into bed, baseball bat at hand. I call 911 again. No answer. The adrenaline rush is gone and I'm crashing really hard. I try to stay awake, but it's been a bitch of a week (two presentations, a prospectus, and the usual 100s of pages of reading) and I fall asleep. I went out this morning to get my coffee and the hallway reeks of cheap bourbon, and the other bad bar smells. There's a whiff of vomit and, I think, feces. There's a thick smear of actual blood on the wall (I think), and it reminds me of how scared I was last night. I call the landlord and leave a message. I call the police again. Still no answer.
Not a lot of traffic this morning, and I had a nice clean shot through the Starbuck's drive through. Jordan, my favorite baristo who is the cutest EVER, has a giant lovebite on his neck that he's slapped a big bandaid on in some attempt at modesty. This makes me even grumpier. But he looks like hell. Apparently, whoever she was, she wasn't worth it. He is totally after, but NO glow. Maybe it won't last. Maybe it's already over. I give him my best smile when he hands me my latte.
Now I'm back home. It's too quiet over there. Too quiet. Usually Matt is up by now, banging around and playing ESPN news, even if he has been drinking. Sometimes he comes over and asks for eggs to scramble. I think about the blood. Call 911 again. Still no answer. Not sure what to do next. I'm thinking about driving down to the police station to file a report, but on weekends you can't just walk in, you have to sit in the entryway and wait for someone to buzz you in, it's a pain in the ass and they'll probably just roll their eyes at me anyway. Not sure what to do next.
I have to reform my X100 class from a full semester to an 8 week format over the weekend, I start teaching on Monday. Also, I have a qual paper and a textbook MS to turn in. Also, the fucking Cathars. And let's not forget historiography. I probably won't leave the house for the rest of the weekend.