Spring Break - Apartment of the Midnight Sun

I got up late this morning. My neighbors, the only other ones on the first floor of my building, were noisy again last night. I use the word neighbors loosely. They are neither neighborly, nor indeed, may they be my neighbors. There is a rotating cast of characters that flow in and out of apartment #20. This is accompanied by a motley collection of cars that occupy the west side of our parking lot. Occupied by VWs, BMWs and SUVs, those two spots unscientifically support my suspicion that my "neighbors" are former frat boys, or of some similar ilk.

Early in my residence here, I tried to ignore the stream of people coming out of and going into #20 at any division of the twenty four hour clock. I didn't care whether they were alcoholic, over privileged or mightily impressed with the contents of Maxim magazine. I just wanted them to be quiet. I work, go to college and study. When it's time to sleep, I need to actually be sleeping. Because of this, I've had the audacity to knock on their door and ask for the consideration that seems to come so naturally to other people.

This is where it gets interesting, or tiresome, to be honest. In those moments that I've made contact with the denizens of #20, I have seldom spoken to the same person twice. A different face often opens the door to gaze boozily at my sleeping attired self. I usually ask to speak to one of the people who live there. With varying degrees of quickness and confidence, the person at the door fetches another person or even themselves. Which is convenient, because they are already standing there swaying gently in the breeze like palms in a Corona beer commercial.

This is the point where the lying begins. I have had at least six different people tell me they are the actual renters of this two-bedroom apartment. And there is usually a "good' reason for all the noise at three in the morning. "It's my bro's birthday, we just got back from a wedding, the Packers won." They may as well say, "We're just relaxing with a couple of drinks to celebrate whichever day of the week it is." That's how it has been during my spring break. I didn't go anywhere. I stayed in Madison and worked. The cast of characters has filed past my window to the back door of #20, perhaps every night this week in the wee hours. Sometimes they try to be quiet, sometimes not. It's difficult to attempt the unfamiliar while still winded from driving back all sloshy from a bar where the smart girls carry their drinks with them when they pee.

There are times as I lie awake in bed, wishing I were not, when I imagine the lives of the twelve or so regulars that sort of live next door. Do they go to Woodman's grocery when the cupboard's bare to get a cart of groceries only to come back with a half bag of steak and potatoes and six cases of beer? If they vote, do they always look for the lever marked "worst possible choice". Whatever they do in the relative privacy of their lives, I'm sure it is done while unconscious. And that's kind of ironic as they never seem to sleep.