I don’t usually pick up the phone.
I, like many of you, let the people call again if they really want to talk to me, at which point I immediately assume someone has died and feel terribly guilty for not picking up on the first call, only to learn that everything is, in fact, fine, and that this particular IRS-impersonating scammer is just very persistent.
But for some reason, about a week ago, I picked up the phone when it rang. Maybe it was the 512 area code. Maybe it was some quantum coincidence. Maybe it was a sign that Apple’s dominance of my brain has expanded.
Whatever the case, I picked up, and heard my landlord asking if everything was ok.
It turns out that on two straight nights prior, the couple downstairs had been awoken by noises so loud that their walls were shaking. Around four or five in the morning, both nights, the walls trembled, the earth quaked, and the sleeping residents downstairs became formerly sleeping residents downstairs, and miffed ones at that. They assumed that the guy upstairs (that was me those nights—roommate was out of town doing who knows what) was stomping around. And rightfully so. When I hear the sound of running in the middle of the day, and it sounds like it’s coming from above me, I assume there is a very hurried woman or man traversing the roof. It is natural, when hearing noises similar to those made by the feet, to assume the person upstairs is having a hoedown.
But here’s the thing.
I was not hoeing down.
I was sleeping.
And after telling my landlord this, I even checked my Fitbit® (sponsor me you cowards, and please stop telling me I’m going to die at 54) when I got off the phone. Nothing amiss. Biometric data saying nothing amiss.
It was strange, especially on the heels of The Smell™ (fuller explanation of that coming whenever we get the next episode of NITeatime out there). Unsettling, even. But after a few days, I forgot about it, moving on to concerns about how much of a diet can and should subsist of Peanut M&M’s.
Then, not long ago, I was getting ready to go ferry the populace around Austin (i.e., drive stUber) when I heard a knock on my door. I opened the door, curious what, whom, or which was knocking, and found myself face to face with a very polite, possible Pennsylvanian man about my age. He said that his girlfriend lives downstairs, and they’d been awoken the night prior by the same sound they’d called about last week. This time around 12:30. They didn’t want to call the office again because they’d gotten a “strike” against them in a previous apartment from a noise complaint and didn’t wish that on me, but they wanted to have a conversation. So we conversed. He had a video of the noise. I was kind of stuffed up and couldn’t really hear it, but I nodded and said, “Man, that’s weird—yeah, I was in bed. I really don’t know what’s happening. But I’m sorry?” And then we exchanged numbers so he could text me if the noise returned.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, so let’s clear some things up:
- No, I haven’t moved from the couch to a bed yet. Need more pageviews for that kind of luxury.
- Yes, this implies the couple may have been co-bunking despite being neither engaged (shoutout Romeo and Juliet) nor married (shoutout Cory and Topanga). I withheld comment, but let it be known that I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips as soon as that door closed, fellow online guardians of morality.
- Evidently “strikes” do exist. They sound bad. I don’t want a strike. I don’t think. But I’m kind of intrigued.
- Yes, I was actually in bed. Though that night I did go to bed only a little while before 12:30, so it’s possible this time it really was me, wakefully.
Moving on.
He hasn’t texted yet, and I’ve been trying to keep it quiet once the sun’s down. Sliding around on my socks a lot like I’m skating on the laminate. Only closing doors and drawers hard once each before remembering that’s a thing that makes noise. Going down the block when I need to howl at the overcast night sky.
But I’m still a little worried this is me, because here’s the thing:
I’ve been known to sleepwalk.
One time in middle school, my mom found the blankets from my bed in the room where she was hiding Christmas presents.
One time in high school, I went to bed clothed, woke up nekked, and never found my drawers.
One time a few weeks ago, I woke up to find all the doors in the apartment shut, presumably by me, when normally we are an open-door community here.
In other words, it’s possible this really is me, and I can’t control it, and I’m getting none of the satisfaction from making a ruckus in the middle of the night. I don’t think it is, because I think this building has a way of making sounds sound like they’re coming from above you when they’re really next door or in the hall (see: running noises on the roof, though on second thought, that might be ghosts). But I can’t wholeheartedly confirm it isn’t. I just don’t know.
On the bright side, it’s looking very possible that “Downstairs Kevin” (as he’s saved in my phone) will text me “It’s happening” in the middle of the night sometime soon, which would be a great text to screenshot and tweet without context. Clout, here we come.
