To the New Guy in Apartment 102

by | Aug 8, 2023 | Fiction, Issue Thirty-Four

Sick rager last night, bro. All of Hell’s Kitchen now knows you’re like totes pumped to be living in the city. Good for you.  

I hear you’re an actor! Been there, barista, dog walker, sperm donor. Seriously, if you ever want to talk, I’m here, happy to offer my advice at a special price just for you, neighbor. Just wait until your agent stops taking your calls because oh let’s say before your last audition you threw back a couple few shots of Jack to take the edge off and so you were a little like fifty minutes late and then you improvised a few of the lines to make the dialogue more believable. I mean we’re artists after all. Am I right?

You’re still young, a good looking guy. Enjoy that.

So listen, next time you decide to have your wannabe Tiesto come play a set, figure that some people might prefer Merle, Waylon or Willie – guys who get you, guys who know – so they can strum along on air guitar, have a cry in the shower. Let it all hang out. No shame in it, bro. No shame.

Maybe consider there are other people in this building, people who don’t want to hear that dud of a DJ spin until 2:30, people who want to sleep, maybe zone out with Kirk and Spock or lie face down on the icy toilet tiles pondering the pointlessness of their existence because Lola ditched them claiming they’d devolved into an echo of the person she thought she knew. Their life together One. Monotonous. Loop.

You feel me?

And yeah, I found the butts, crunched White Claw cans and empty bags of Takis Extra Hot – try the Zombie Nitro. They’re sick! — bursting from the bins in the garbage room. We both know they’re yours. I snapped a picture for my visual timeline of your nefarious activities should I need them for future reference.

Next time I won’t call in a noise complaint to 311 like I did four times last night because I’ve just ordered 300 water balloons on Amazon. Maybe I’ll fill them with water. Maybe something else. Maybe I’ll drop them on you when you least expect it. Just for the sound of a satisfying splat.

Because I’m here.  Always here.   

Joe, apartment 202

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