Suzy Says

According to recent statistics, the population of San Francisco is pretty much evenly divided between women and men. I had expected that there was a severe, post-WWI type of male shortage since it appears that the hideous troll who lives in the apartment under ours actually has a girlfriend.

For the first time in the more than eight years we have lived there, this guy has finally been able to lure a woman (although admittedly one of the least attractive representatives of the species) to his apartment, which reeks of cheap cigars, mysterious, pungent food with unknown components, and is decorated with a Pepsi clock and other Pepsi memorabilia, since – you guessed it – the guy works for Pepsi. He even wears Pepsi shirts and caps with his carefully ironed jeans on the weekend.

This guy forms the lower shit layer of the sandwich we live in. He blasts his radio, either classical music, with all the commercials, or “soft rock” all weekend, and his TV during the week. Though he appears to be hearing impaired in the extreme, owing to the volume necessary for him to listen to the radio or watch TV, he is hyper-sensitive to any sound we make, including walking, and bitches endlessly to us, the building manager, and anyone else who will listen. He snores so loudly that I can hear it clearly as I get ready for work in the morning, and coughs so loud and long on a daily basis that I am always lightly surprised that he hasn’t actually expired, since it sounds as though he is at Death’s door. Possibly yet another of the unlovely side effects of all that cigar smoking. He looks through all the mail, investigates everyone coming in or out of the building, and had the tree on his deck brutally cut back so now the neighbor’s kitchen looks directly in our bedroom. Thanks, Mr. Pepsi.

The upper layer is a tiny woman who probably weighs 90 pounds soaking wet, yet stomps around like she weighs 300 pounds, actually causing earthquake-style shaking and quaking of objets d’art and books. So there is rarely any peace and quiet to be had chez nous, though that is obviously one of the hazards of apartment living. And our building is almost 80 years old, so it must be beyond belief to live in one of those modern boxes with paper walls. As Dorothy Parker said, with some truth, other people are hell. Particularly when they live above you and below you and you can’t call either your floor or ceiling your own.

But to get back to Mr. Downstairs, it amazes me that someone so devoid of personal charm (short, bald, surly, whining, appearing to be lightly greased at all times) has actually found someone willing to spend time with him. I guess there truly is someone for everyone. I will be interested to see how long she can take it.