Tuesday, February 12, 2008

a shirtless teenager named "Chico" just gave me his phone number

Because I went upstairs wearing sweatpants, socks and a nightgown with a coat thrown hastily over the ensemble to have a word or two with my incredibly loud upstairs neighbor whose mom is away, hence the parties which I'm fairly sure involve drugs and which are quite loud and are driving me nuts. I'm sure of the drugs because the last time I went up there to see if they could possibly not yell at 4 in the morning, the girl who lives there, who's apparently now consorting with "Chico" said she was just "about to blaze" and wanted to know if I wanted to join. I said no, I just wanted to sleep. Another time she showed up at my door at 10am wanting to know if she could climb through my window because she'd locked herself out of her apartment and she knew of some way to shimmy up the fire escape and into her own bedroom. Cleary she'd done it before when I wasn't unfortunate enough to live here, back in the days when I lived in an apartment with a dishwasher and doorman and central air and heat and life was good. Have I mentioned I hate this little apartment urchin? I think she's lived here forever, and at some point tragedy befell the family, and so people put up with her even though it's well known she's loud and horrible to live under. Plus: the window shimmying.

So tonight at first inklings of ruckus I shot up there and rang the doorbell. Shirtless be-necklaced "Chico" answered the door, in mid-sizzle (Chico cooks omelettes apparently) and seemed to know before I even opened my mouth what I was coming up about, probably from the look of "I'm going to kill you, I am way too old for this bullshit" on my face. Naturally I softened though, because he looked kind of frightened. We shook hands. I asked if there was a number I could call when they're too loud so I don't have to bang on the ceiling with a broom like the unpleasant old lady I'm becoming. He gave me his number. He admitted that he definitely heard the broom racket last night, which begs the question why they didn't shut the hell up, but whatever. Perhaps he thought I was offering collaborative percussion. Basically I wanted his phone number so I don't have to call the cops, which I will so totally do, and I wish I'd mentioned that. Apartment urchin was in the shower. I would have preferred her number, but at least now if I want to buy drugs, I'm pretty sure Chico can hook me up (Note: I don't want to buy drugs. I want to go to sleep.)

10 comments:

Anonymous said...

Quote of the day:

" Leeeeeaaaaave CHIIIIICO ALONe !!!!!......



-Jack

Mr. Ricardo said...

Anytime you have a person named "Chico" living above you drugs are not too far behind. The same goes for living below some one who does drugs, some one named "Chico" will show up asking if you know what time your neighbor will be home. Just my experience. And don't get me started on their chicks!

Anonymous said...

I can totally relate to what you're saying. I too have upstairs neighbors, and my weapon of choice has always been to throw my New Balance© shoe at the ceiling. There are 3 dudes that live above me, and let's just say they would be in the heavyweight division in boxing. What is strange though is, the next day when I speak with any of them, it's like nothing ever happened. I'm thinking, How can you just stand there and act like last night didn't happen? Slowly but surely though, they have ceased to make such a ruckus. I think it's because they moved out in stealth mode, but I've yet to confirm that. I'm tellin' you, "Bottom apartment rage" is waaaaay worse than "Road Rage." Now I'm gonna go outside and smoke in a Buffalo Stance. (you have no idea how long I've waited to squeeze that one in.)

Michael.
La.

Joe said...

I'm thinking it's about time Ted, Michael and I grab some baseball bats and pay your neighbors a little visit. I'm sure we can convince them that "Silence is Golden".

We can tell them how by some strange phenomena people who make too much noise at night end up with busted knee caps, broken femurs and the inability to use their arms for several months.

And you think he looked frightened LAST night??

Anonymous said...

I'm with you on that one Joe. No need in Alison getting her hands dirty. Although I can't help but think that if she would have sicked Wendy on em', we wouldn't even be having this discussion today. In some weird/strange way that is a compliment.

It's a sad day when all I can find interesting to watch is this Roger Clemens crap. I don't even like Women's Beach Volleyball.

Michael.
La.

P.S. Feel better Ted!

Joe said...

Michael, there's always Canadian Parliament. Just kidding (that's from Seinfeld.)

I'm only half kidding about the baseball bats, Alison. If it gets really bad, get 3 of your friends (male, the bigger the better) and have them go up there with some baseball bats. They won't have to make any threats. They can just ask the folks to keep the noise down, and then say, "We aren't going to have to come up here AGAIN are we?"

Believe me, it'll be like a library up there.

Anonymous said...

I just had a memory strike me about the name "Chico." Back in my teen years, my step-father, at least at that time, had a mule named *Chico.* I swear that's true, you can't make that up. I guess the only interesting thing about it was, when females would drive-up and come to the house, he would do his hee-haw routine,and then his uhh, how can I put this, okay, his member would make it's appearance. That's sick and twisted I know. Now that you mention it, maybe I shouldn't have shared this. Oh well, I've done worse.

On a much less graphic note. You wouldn't know this if I didn't tell you, but I'm actually enduring some pain right now. I'm 34 yrs old and I would like to think that I am somewhat smart, but what I can't get past is the fact that I have lost the ability to navigate myself from room to room in my apartment without slamming my toes into a wall. What's bad is, when you first do it, you're like ohhhh this is gonna be bad. There's like a delay thingie that goes on. I can almost understand me doing this at night when I'm going for a midnight snack, but in broad daylight? You got to be kidding me. Somehow there has got to be a million dollar idea on how to prevent this. Or simply, just watch where the f**k I'm going.

Michael.
La.

Anonymous said...

If you'd called the urchin "Chachi" instead of urchin, your blog would've been 1/3 more alliterative.
Hugh

Joe said...

I hope you folks don't mind my posting all these quotes; I just think they're so funny.

This was said by James Carville today to a homebuilders' association, referring to this year's presidential race:

"For both you Democrats out there, I got good news for you. We have to literally talk our way out of winning this election.

For the Republicans, being a lifelong member of the Democratic party, I can assure you we are perfectly capable of doing that."

Ted from Accounting said...

Holy Crap! You guys crack me up! I'm quite confident this will be the first time in history the threat "keep the fuc**** noise down or I'm going to sick my bloggers on you!" has been used.

I know Alison will choose the high road on this issue...but there is a song by the Beastie Boys called Professor Booty...the first couple of lines say, "Shut the f*** up Chico man." Since tweakers typically stay up all night and sleep during the day...I'd recommend playing just that portion of the song...say 400 times at a high volume level whenever he is loud or repeatedly play that song over and over about 10 AM...because it has some thumpin bass. Now that would be my quick and immature advice...probably the best thing to do is just kick his ass! :)

Thanks for the well wishes! Hopefully another 24 hours in bed will help.

Professor Booty Link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XxOG2NE2gmU