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| What, exactly, is wrong with you, bathroom buddy? (north beach / telegraph hill) |
| Computers & Electronics : Windows |
| 03/15/06 |
Dear bathroom-neighbor,
Are you OK? Our rather unique relationship began several weeks ago when, after a night of hard drinking, my weary innards pulled me from a catatonic slumber with that most pressing of urges, known colloquially as “nature’s call.” It being sometime on the far side of 4 on a Thursday morning, I was surprised to hear your shower running. You see, due to the architectural nuances of our apartment building, our bathroom windows are located all of six inches apart from each other, both opening into the same ventilation shaft, and are also our only means, short of leaving the front door open all night, of creating a fresh draft through the apartment from the large picture window overlooking Washington Square. On those randomly sultry nights only San Francisco can produce in mid-winter, this is a positive necessity to keep the sleeping area at a manageable temperature, lest one wake up with the “rust nutz.”
Anyway, due to these vagaries of design and geothermic imperatives, it should come as no surprise that, upon entering my bathroom, I can hear everything that goes on in yours. At first I assumed your bathing at such an unconscionable hour was a result of some pressing appointment early that morning, or perhaps working east coast market hours. (As an aside, in this technological age when I can enter a limit order in one window while browsing CL personal$ for forward-thinking prostitutes in another, both from home and my office, isn’t it about time we had a global centralized market, open 24 hours a day? Both for whores and for stocks, I mean.) Then I heard a most disagreeable sound: a wet, rumbling, diaphragm-perforating hock, like a morbidly obese emphysema patient after too much pudding. After four or five such grunting efforts to expel some unwanted accumulation from your lungs had been made during the course of my (admittedly longer than average) evacuation, I decided you must have the mother of all chest colds. I often find an extra-steamy shower is just the thing to clear up my passages. I retired to my bed wishing you well in the vague, silent way that strangers do, and thought no more of you.
At this point, I’d like clarification on the first of several troublesome issues I’ve uncovered relating directly to what you do in your bathroom. The sounds I heard were booming, behemoth retches. Clearly the work of a large, overly-hirsute man. Perhaps an American Gladiators alumna could duplicate this phenomenon, but at the very least it would have to be an average sized male with several years of vocal coaching and chest exercises. And yet, the only person I’ve seen entering or leaving your apartment in the last two years has been a diminutive Asian woman. Granted, I’ve never spoken to her (Who talks to their neighbors, right? This isn’t the suburbs), and have no idea what her dating habits are like, so you, mystery hocker, could be some greasy wino she brought home from a bar. Hell, you could be her shut-in husband, shell-shocked from the war, whom she has to support by working three jobs while you hang around the house all day nursing your lingering maladies. That’s about the only scenario I can come up with to adequately explain why two people would be sharing an apartment as small as mine. If, however, you and the diminutive Asian woman are one in the same, all I can say is “Bravo, ma’am. Bravo.”
Moving on. A few short hours later I found myself awake and preparing for a long, hung-over day at work, probably to be spent mostly reading best-of posts, since misery loves company. That, and good stories about anal. Entering my bathroom yet again to perform my morning ablutions, I was startled to hear your shower still running. Panic quickly swelled in me when, upon careful listening, I could no longer hear your resounding phlegm-movements, or even the slightest rustle of movement at all. What happened? Were you taking a momentary break from your exertions to partake in a light breakfast, knowing that a fully-steamed-up shower would be required immediately after? Did you fall asleep in the tub and drown to death in the night? Were you just unnaturally still while regrouping for another round of stomach-turning expectorations? I was late for work, so I just left you there.
When I returned that afternoon, the shower was off. Thankfully, there were no signs of the police and/or coroner having come ‘round while I was out. The last thing I need is an inquisition from a bleary-eyed public servant wondering why I did not call for help when I could clearly hear my fellow man in distress. A few days passed without further developments, when, once again finding myself in the WC, I heard more of the fierce, groin-grabbingly intense retching wafting through the open window. Over the past few weeks this has become an increasingly hackneyed (pardon the pun) occurrence in our lives. I don’t even bat an eye anymore when I hear the shower on several times a day, at completely arbitrary times. So, now that you know what I know, let’s clear up some of the burning questions surrounding this entire affair.
1- Does it burn when you pee? I ask because of the shower thing. I know several of the more vicious viral afflictions which attack the human mucous membranes require a bathtub full of water to adequately unload the bladder, and, I would assume, a lengthy cleansing afterward.
2- How much time do you spend in there, and how much can you hear? I know, for example, that I normally can not hear you in the bathroom while I am in my apartment proper. However, I often have the television or music on, and bustling around as I sometimes do, I might just be drowning you out, while you are forced to listen to a normal, healthy life being led just paces away from your misty pit of convalescence. I suppose I should spend a period of time sitting quietly in my living room, and determine how much of your activity I can catch. If my life is, in fact, an open book to you, am I a source of constant annoyance? Does it irk you when I prepare complicated meals, complete with the requisite banging of pots and clattering of dishes? Do you mind when I chortle at the comedic stylings of a hip new farceur? Honestly, I don’t know if I can stifle my guffaws in the face of a transcendent talent like a Demetri Martin or a Tony Danza. When I’m entertaining a lady friend, do you roll your eyes at our fawning repartee? If so, a thousand pardons I ask of you. I’ll try to keep it down.
3- So, are you going to die? If what I’m hearing is the end-game in your bitter traverse of this mortal coil, I’d like to be prepared. It seems like something I might need to work through with a therapist. Also, if you are checking out, who’s taking over your lease? I’d love to knock down the wall, assuming it’s not load-bearing, of course, and just open up the space a little. Maybe remodel your kitchen into a breakfast nook. I love nooks. The possibilities have me downright atwitter. Of course, this is all moot if you’re just going to spend the next 15 years in prolonged misery. How about a heads up if you’re going to, you know, die? Thanks.
Sincerely,
The guy next door.
p.s. Sorry about that time I had a few friends over and we made chili. Even we were pretty disgusted with ourselves. My curtains still smell a little bit like ass. L8R.
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