Living downstairs in a duplex has
very few perks. As a matter of fact,
the only bonus I can think of is that you are the first one to know if there is
a flood. However, I started to notice
that living downstairs seemed to get me
invited to quite a few parties upstairs.
I thought it was my charming charisma and personality at first or maybe
because I drink fancy beer and usually bring a 12 pack but, either way, I was
definitely and often getting invited to the Upstairs Parties.
Upon arriving to one of these
shindigs, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know anybody. It was my neighbour’s friends but I did notice
that my hostess (who will hereafter be referred to as Neighbouress) didn’t
introduce me to anyone and I always felt a little weird introducing myself as
the guy who lives in the basement. After
about 4 or 5 beers I’d get tired and remember that I still had to work in the
morning and I’d walk around looking for Neighbouress to thank her for the
invite, but she was often never to be found.
Trying to get out in the morning was
a pain in the ass because I’d be blocked in and have to wake people up to get
out of the drive. The worst part was
that there was no Timmie’s that morning because I’d get fired if I’d show up
late for work.
Next Friday would be more of the
same. When I got home from work my
parking spot was already taken by somebody.
“Hey, there’s a small get-together
tonight; you should come,” Neighbouress would say and then run back upstairs
without giving me a chance to answer.
Maybe three or four beers and I’d be
tired of Buckcherry and Lil' Wayne and I’d head back downstairs. My old radio could never drown out their
music, so I would put in some construction earplugs and try to get some
sleep. Seeing as my spot had been taken
the night before I had no trouble getting out but I was a little grumpy getting
a $15 ticket for street parking after 10pm. Later arriving home I’d laugh when
there was still a car or two in the driveway, people who hadn’t sobered up
enough to make it home yet.
This would go on 3 times a month or
so and it would be the same story: you're invited, never noticed, can’t sleep,
parking ticket, and late for work.
Finally I had to put an end to this
insanity. I called McLandlord to ask for help.
After explaining the situation he told me that “e'rey body 'as the right
to enjoy thare own time in peace and quiet” and that he would “'av a wee word
with de lass”.
It wouldn’t have been an hour before
McLandlord called back and — with that fiery temper that only the Irish get
worked up to — let me know that “The nex' time det ye' feel like complain’n
don’t facken whine tuh me wit chore arrogant self-rightchosness, and if ye'
don’t like the party, dan don’t facken go to 'em!”
Well, at least I know why I kept getting
invited to the parties. It seemed as
though if you go to a party you waive the right to complain about the
noise. I figure Neighbouress knew
exactly how to get what she wanted and she sure knew handle guys like me. For the rest of her tenancy, I never got
invited back to a party (six of them) and I never dared complain about it
again.