If you want to know the truth, the truth is this: when you lived in the apartment under mine, I use to jump up and down on purpose. I've lived under people with toddlers and people who don't trim their dog's nails and maniacs who seem to be dancing with their furniture all the time and people who buy their teenagers stereos with bases even though their kids like death metal and clumsy people and angry people who let it out mostly through their heels. I've lived under all kinds of loud. So I know how it is. That's why I did it.
In fact, when you moved in, my bedroom had wall-to-wall carpeting. It was green and thick and I liked to sit on the edge of my bed and wiggle my toes in it like it was grass, yarn grass. But then I realized how it muffled the impact of my jumps, so I had it torn out. I paid the kid who lives next door, the one with the lopsided haircut and those hideous cargo shorts whose mom pretends not to smell that he's always sneaking cigarettes out his bedroom window. You've seen him from down there, too, I'm sure. He came in with some big pair of red garden sheers and tore my little bedroom yard right up. That night, when I heard you come home, I jumped from the bed to the floor 17 times, instead of just jumping in place. I'm sure you remember this.
Sometimes I did it because it felt like justice. Other times I did it and felt like an elephant. Sometimes, I just needed something to be sorry for. You don't know it, but after the worst bouts of stomping -- the ones where I ran from wall to wall in high heels -- I often put my ear on the floor afterwards to see if I could hear anything.
But your very quiet. You are so, so quiet. You only ever make noise when you are coming or going, practical noise, noise in passing. At first, I thought that's what I liked about you. I thought that's why I was doing it. Like: you would knock on my door and I could say it to your face: oh, I am so sorry! Then I would make it up to you some sweet way that maybe would become just sweet with no making up and then maybe after that just making out.
Later, I realized I was doing it because I hated you. Because you were too quiet. Because no one has a right to be that quiet. There are a lot of reasons to make noises, you know! That's what I am trying to say. Because you love, because you hate, because you want to be an elephant. Or even a kangaroo.
You moved out. At least, I think you moved out. To be honest, it sounds the same -- when I lie with my ear on the floor I only hear the pipes snickering like before. Still, I feel like you did.
But look, you deserve to understand about all this! And so here is what I am going to do for you, I have it all planned out finally: I am going to buy you a tuba. There's a store in Watertown. They sell used instruments, tubas that have been rented to middle school band students who became too popular and had to play soccer instead, pock marked tubas, tubas covered in dents. They're the sort of ugly that means no-expertise-required! and nothing-to-lose! If you get frustrated, you can even throw a tuba like this at the living room floor. It won't matter. Things that can survive middle school are virtually indestructible.
But look, you deserve to understand about all this! And so here is what I am going to do for you, I have it all planned out finally: I am going to buy you a tuba. There's a store in Watertown. They sell used instruments, tubas that have been rented to middle school band students who became too popular and had to play soccer instead, pock marked tubas, tubas covered in dents. They're the sort of ugly that means no-expertise-required! and nothing-to-lose! If you get frustrated, you can even throw a tuba like this at the living room floor. It won't matter. Things that can survive middle school are virtually indestructible.
But you have to play it. That's why I am getting it for you. The jumping and the high-heel running, it isn't working, I know. But maybe if I get you a tuba. Maybe that will help.
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