However (you knew there was going to be a however).
This week, at 4 am, I awaken to hear my upstairs neighbor beating his hands bloody against one of these. Not only that, but he's also blaring Michael Jackson's "Beat It", laying down his own drum beat against the already percussive song.
Something had to be done.
Looking something like this, I drag my weary, nightmare-riddled body up a flight of stairs and start bashing their doorbell. When the drunk, heavily accented man answered the door, our exchange went something like this (you figure out what his initials stand for):
EK: Hey there. What the hell is that banging?
DB: My roommate. He's playing a drum.
EK: Um. You know it's four in the morning right?
DB: Yeah. Too loud?
EK: You woke me out of a dead sleep. Yeah. Too loud. Just. Stop it.
DB: Yeah, whatever.
I slither back down the stairs, to find that DD has also been woken up, and ladies and gentlemen, she is not to be messed with in the middle of the night. She gets kind of wild eyed.
I relay my failed attempt to her, and she heads up for round two. By this point, our neighbor's baby is in hysterics, probably because he thinks we're being taken over by some kind of drum-wielding Bushwick nomads, so she takes up our friend, our metal persuasion, our baseball bat (affectionately nicknamed Lil' Papi), to help her negotiations. Their conversation, decidedly more heated, mostly focused on the fact that she was holding a bat in her hand, but eventually he decided she was serious, and shut down the drum circle. After having the balls to ask which part was too loud, the Jacko on repeat, or his goddamned rain dance.
In my small way, I will exact revenge. I was up at 8:30 this morning, banging on our ceiling with a broom. Perhaps tomorrow I'll figure out a way to light their doorknob on fire.
