Fiction : John Groshalski
“I sleep with fans on,” Mike said. “Even now. Even in the winter, I need them to block out the noise. I can’t bear to hear people walking above me, or hear their music coming down through my ceiling. People walking up and down the street, their conversations, their laughter, the barking of their dogs; it all drives me mad.”
“Have you talked to anyone about this? Have you talked to Dara?”
“Dara knows. And she’s as understanding as she can be. It’s easier when she’s there, you know. She can distract me; tell me how silly I’m being when I pound on the neighbor’s wall. We can talk and laugh, and go into the quiet kitchen and make our own noise. She can fall asleep easily, so at night the fans don’t bother her. But I feel like I’m relying on her too much.”
“Christ.” Paul took a pull on his new beer. He felt his phone vibrate.
“But, see, it’s bad when she works late and I come home alone. Then it’s on me to get the mail and see if there are bills. It’s on me to keep a balance. And I can’t. Every little noise gets me. Last week I tried watching a movie, but I kept turning the volume down on the television because I swore I heard my upstairs neighbor’s pipes moaning.”
Paul had more beer, and looked at his friend. Mike sat there staring at him, as if he’d have all of the answers. “I don’t know what to tell you, dude. Life is life, you know. Or something stupid like that. We live in apartments. You don’t think Sheila and I have our share of distractions to contend with at home? She sleeps with a mask over her eyes because the streetlights are so bright outside our place. We have a kid. Kids get sick. Kids cry and whine, and piss in the bed in the middle of the night. Just last month I had to kick some skateboarders out from in front of our building. They were sitting on the stoop, screaming and yelling, keeping Janelle up.”
Mike nodded. To Paul he suddenly seemed better.
“It’s just,” he continued, after taking a good pull on his beer, “you can’t let this stuff get to you. You can’t let bills and noise, or people and jobs get you down or drive you nuts. You can’t let these little things run your life. They’ll kill you if you do. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. I think.”
“Good.” Paul got off his stool, finished his beer. “Why don’t you order us one more round, okay? I’m going to go outside and have a smoke, give the wife a call.”
“Sure,” Mike said.
Paul patted him on the shoulder and went outside.
It was a clear night, warmer than it should be for this time of year. Paul looked at the Christmas lights lining Third, and he watched a young couple walking down the street with large coffee cups. They seemed happy, maybe wealthy, and both of them were walking tiny dogs that kept tangling each other up in their leashes. Paul watched the people until they were out of his line of sight. Then he lit a cigarette, and dialed home.
“Where are you?” Sheila said, when she picked up.
“With Mike,” he said. “Didn’t you get my message?”
“Well, when are you coming home?”
“Soon. Why do you sound so damned edgy?”
Sheila sighed into the receiver. “Because I’m tired. Because I’ve just spent the day with a two year-old who has acute diarrhea, and I’ve cleaned up more shit than I ever want to in my life again.”
“Is Janelle okay?”
“She’s fine. She’s watching her DVDs.”
“Okay,” Paul said.
“But it’s me, Paul,” Sheila said. “I’m going crazy. This place is driving me nuts today. How long are you going to be?”
“We’re just having one more round.”
“One more round, and then you’ll be home?”
Paul hesitated.
“Say you’ll be home,” Sheila demanded. “Say you’ll be home and you can look after the kid so that I can get some time away from all of this. I mean it, Paul. Promise me.”
“I’ll be home within the hour,” Paul said.
“Good.” Sheila hung up.
Paul stood in front of the bar, finishing his smoke. He looked at the Christmas lights again, and in the distance he could hear a bell ringing. He thought about Mike in his apartment, pounding on walls and turning down his television to hear the noise of the neighbor’s above. Then Paul lit another smoke just to kill a couple more minutes before he had to go back inside the bar.
John Grochalski is a writer formerly from Pittsburgh. He lives in New York now with his wife and two cats. Grochalski's book of poems The Noose Doesn't Get Any Looser After You Punch Out is forthcoming via Six Gallery Press.