I confronted my upstairs neighbour
this morning. A thing I thought
I’d never do. Being of a reclusive
nature, such as I am, and altogether
unconcerned with initiating
social congress with persons of
an as yet unknown temperament.
As that is however, and I am
now awake when I should be sleeping,
I thought I would make some good of it
by writing about the transaction.
My position in this matter
is not altogether noble
as I have been given to fantasize -albeit,
through a veil of paranoia about
the upstairs tenant.
This began from the first I noticed
his tendency to walk with a heavy foot.
Any person must be aware, to some degree,
of the sound that momentarily
reverberates from floor panel to foot-sole
when walking in such a way. However slight,
there is a discernible vibration,
pocketed briefly in that minute space.
As is why I rationalized that he must be
a person of low moral character who has designed
his activities with an intent
to cause me grief. This building is old, and
the walls are thin -this I know-,
as much can be observed by listening
to the daily scuffle in these close apartments.
With some insanity I decided to investigate
the tenant listing
at the buildings front entrance. The rooms
above were let out to a Mr. Poole.
Whom, as I discovered by further probing
the local telephone directory, was in fact
a mister Lazarus Poole, of which a
google search revealed precious little.
How are there no pictures,
social media friend groups, obituaries,
marriages, or work related registrations?
I began to wonder, perhaps strangely,
about this person who conspired
on his own, or perhaps with others,
to keep his identity a secret, and if so,
why? I then intended to watch him
Though that decision was made yesterday,
and as such I have had no time between
then and now to conjure
further questions. This morning’s event
had me woken with a start, and perhaps
a fury that his ignorant stomping
should spur me so. Taken with this fit
I hurried to collect my robes, and
was set to confront his door without
a second thought. At which I knocked
three times, and at finding no answer
therein, as his obnoxious radio
was on, instead I tried the bell.
The music stopped and a shadow appeared
before the peep-hole, at which I
finger waved with a mock delighted smile.
Then the lock turned, and before me stood
dumbfounded, a simple looking man
of no great stature, and of moderate,
if not uninteresting quality.
At length he said hello, in a long
and curious tone that suggested
and uncertainty as to why I appeared
before him. To which I plainly asked
“Why are you stomping?”
“I’m not”, he contradicted, and
I immediately rejoined
“Yes you are.” Pointing to his rooms,
I exclaimed “You stomped from your living room
down the hall to the bath.”
“I’m sorry”, he dumbly replied, at which
I informed him of my residency
and offered a pantomimic approximation of
his tendencies -which, thinking on it now
may have looked comical.
He supplied a second apology, however,
to this I turned my profile to him, and
hissed, from a side long glare
However irresponsible to mention
after the fact, I thought him fortunate.
For in my younger days before I’d given
myself to calm, he would have met
instead a tempest, and not a hermit.
Not that I am proud of this, nor
that which rage itself destroys,
I have learned
that true power is obtained
through the mastery
of conscious thought.
I choose to think of this morning
as an opportunity
to test my patience.
Take care when waking sleeping wizards.
© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.