Confrontation between the Sober and the Stoned Or the Douchebag Downstairs

So, last night (12/4/09) I had a confrontation with the tenant downstairs, the first manly pissing match between a twenty-something and me, a thirty-something. I was trying to sleep, okay maybe early for some people, 11PM my time, but none-the-less I have been sick and I'm trying to mend.

So, at about 11:20PM I can't handle his guitar playing any longer and I get out of bed, throw on my Carhartts and shirt, head downstairs and ring his doorbell, mind you it's hovering around 30 degrees and I'm standing on the front porch waiting for him to answer the door. Two minutes go by, no answer and I head back upstairs, a bit aggravated, but tired. I walk into my bedroom and hear his guitar still so I head back downstairs and ring his doorbell again, this time I lay on the button for a three count. Finally, I hear some stirring. He answers the door glassy-eyed, wearing a baseball hat askew on his head like some thug, mind you he's White middle class. He gave me this grimace, "like great, what do you want." So, I asked him if he can stop playing his guitar so I can get some sleep and he just about explodes if it weren't for being under the influence of the cheeba, it's just pouring out of his apartment. You can see it in his eyes, he's trying to pull together information to argue with me over the appropriateness of this visit. So, his retort is, "it's eleven o'clock on a Friday and I'm trying to relax a little because I'm writing my thesis." Great, am I suppose to sympathize for him because he's choosing to work on his thesis so late in the evening, that he's stoned, or that he's trying to relax by playing guitar that's keeping me awake? Now, our leases stipulate the quiet hour is eleven PM.

A bit of back story before I continue on with the confrontation. I have, in the past, rung his doorbell a few times to ask him to either A. turn down his music or B. turn down his surround sound bass. On one occasion he stated, "It's not eleven o'clock yet." That's all well and good, but I didn't come down because it was eleven o'clock. On other occasions, I had to admit, the surround sound wasn't loud, just the sub-woofer existing in a space about 20 feet in length, which acoustically only allows me, upstairs, to hear it. So, I couldn't argue with him about the level of the volume. Also, the house we live in is a two story family home, uninsulated without a sound barrier between floors, he's obviously on the first flat and I on the second. There also exists a parking situation, he parks in the narrow single lane drive before I do, because he doesn't use his car much and when he needs to get out, he usually rings my doorbell, I go downstairs and he's just standing there assuming I can intuit what he wants. Sometimes, he's not even there, he might be at his car in the drive which I can't see when I open my door, or he's gone back in his house to get something I assume, then I just head back upstairs. So, his ability to communicate is somewhat deadened by the few brain cells that are able to get him through his MA program at SU.

Back to the confrontation of last night. As I mentioned, the quiet hour is eleven PM, and our leases stipulate that. He continues to tell me, "it's Friday and the quiet hour is midnight," which I correct him by saying, "read your lease, the quiet hour is eleven PM." Well he doesn't seem to like the fact that I'm interrupting his guitar playing relaxation time, or the fact that I know what our leases stipulate. So, he begins to get all whiny, holding a pity party and begins playing the Grad School student on a Friday night victim. He begins to tell me that I've called the cops on our neighbors for playing a video game console loudly, which is incorrect. I've called the cops on the neighbors for holding a seemingly impromptu party at 2AM waking me up from a deep sleep, which the cops were never able to make it over to suggest they turn the volume down and keep it inside. He also brings up the instances I've gone down to request him to turn down the volume, which as I stated earlier in his apartment it wasn't loud, but it was loud in my apartment.

It didn't take long for me to raise my voice, which he called me out on, and I replied that I just beat him to the punch, because his voice was also rising in volume. He suggested that I call the landlord (that wasn't going to happen at 11:30pm) and I told him if he wasn't so inconsiderate that he would turn it down and I told him to step outside, because in all honesty I was prepared to pummel him and break him clean down. I've been enduring a level of volume which is invasive and pervasive in my apartment all coming from his apartment, music, guitar playing with horrible accompanied singing, loud surround sound, loud talking, door slamming (a Grad student that doesn't know how to shut a door is really pathetic), etc. Then he said he was going to call the cops for me threatening him, which was a bluff due to his cheeba stench. I have no problem with pot, only when it permeates into my apartment, and he smokes at least twice a day as far as I can smell. I of course told him I would call the cops on him for the noise abatement issue. At one point, he told me that I was forty years old and that I should move, funny, I've been in my apartment for over five years—I have no idea what age has to do with that, but that's beside the point, and the fact that I laughed at him at that moment didn't boost his confidence.

I'm sure his perspective is completely different, that I am an oppressive mother effer, and bothersome with my requests of him to turn down the volume. Funny thing is, I often agree that his volume isn't loud downstairs, but he doesn't seem to understand subtlety. He did mention, "like I don't hear your dog at 8AM in the morning racing around upstairs." It is true, on occasion, my dog gets excited and will run around like a bull in a china store. But, it's 8AM and he's already awake by his own admission, because he thought it prudent to tell me about his daily schedule, which he seems to have embellished upon. I sometimes hear him leave and know when he gets home. So, this oppressive mother effer isn't buying it.

That was the confrontation between the sober and the stoned. Oh, in the end, I won, he stopped playing guitar. He has since not made a peep over this weekend, I think he likes his apartment and enjoys smoking the herb, which he doesn't want to stop doing, so he's probably not going to stir this hornets nest, because if he does, mark my words, he will get stung, repeatedly.