Musical Neighbors


Ah… this brings back memories.

I once lived in an apartment below a group of musicians. I too was a musician and was sharing the monthly costs, with my bandmates, for a storeroom where we could practice.

But these guys, who were a House band for a club on the other end of town, would come back from a gig at 2 or 3am on a Saturday, Sunday, & Monday morning, and start partying with the groupies.

I was polite the first four times.

I was stern the fifth time.

On the sixth time, I got out of bed, went straight up to their apartment without getting dressed first (which means I was naked), banged loudly on the door, and heard the idiots inside loudly, Stonedly, telling each other “Sh! Sh! Sh!”

My neighbor opened the door with the expression and posture of one who is faking both sober and innocent. Then he realized what he was seeing and his posture fell apart.


Me: “Brad, I have no problem letting my band come over -”

Brad: “Holy FUCK! You’re naked!?! What the FUCK?!?

Me: “Shut up. I have no problem letting my band come over and practice while you are trying to sleep before a gig.”

I stepped into his apartment. Everybody was silent.

Brad: “What’s WRONG with you, dude? Get some fucking clothes-“

Me: “Shut up. So now I AM going to practice full blast while you are trying to sleep before your weekend gigs.”

Brad: “Put some fucking clothes on, man!”

Me: “Unless I too have a gig that night, I am going to practice full blast during the day while you are trying to sleep for every god damn night of your gigs. Our neighbors will be enjoying their weekend during the day while my band and I practice. So who do you think they will complain about? Me or you?”

Brad: “I’m fucking reporting you to the fucking manager!”

Me: “Well you should do that right now, Brad! Because she’s up! You woke her! I know! She was coming out of her apartment when she saw me and dodged right back in!

Brad: “. . .”

Me: “She’s probably already called the cops.”

Brad: “. . .!”

Me: “With this fog of pot in here, you should probably fumigate your place down with Lysol! Why? Because Lysol will Really make the cops CRAZY suspicious when they talk to you. See if you can talk while holding your breath, too! Good luck keeping your House gig at Wild Wild West.”

I left, and everybody hustled out of there to parts unknown. The cops did come and the property manager let them into Brad’s place.

They knocked on my door,
“No, I’ve no idea where they went.
Now that you mention it, I think I Did smell marijuana.
Have I been smoking marijuana (nice long deep breath of air at their face) Nope.
Did I go up to their apartment naked? I’m not sure. I’m a sleepwalker.”

A moving truck came for his shit, but I never saw Brad again.

Now then –

Different folks have a different reaction to my story (depending on who they sympathize with), but even when I recall it now, I fall in love with myself all over again!


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Sometimes I get together with other bands,

Look for my story Cedo Looked Like People, in the anthology, FEAR THE REAPER, edited by Joe Mynhardt. Available from Crystal Lake Publishing and available in Print for $12.99 or eBook for $2.99.

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