Neighbors

Three days later the paint ran down the wall. Nothing seemed to cover the Pepto-Bismal pukish pink. Some lunatic therapist had told the previous tenant that this color was soothing and good for her soul or some such shit. So the silly twit painted everything. Floors, ceilings, counters walls window sills, trim, everything was a monochromatic tyranny of salmon. I had tried to cover it time after time, coat after coat, with white, linen white, blue, pale yellow, sea foam green, limestone, corduroy. It all ran down the walls in melting flows of latex.
It was hot, no AC. Back in the day this seven- by ten-foot room was a flophouse for the docks just a few blocks away. Now it had a shitter in the closet and a corner shower in what was laughingly called the bedroom. You could swing your feet from the bed, (which was on four-foot posts so a dresser could fit underneath) and land in the shower without touching the soothing pink floorboards. The apartment was in a building behind a four story brick rooming house on Hudson. To get there you walked from the street through the entrance of 634, down a hall, out the back, across a courtyard, into another door, and up a couple of flights. There were four flophouse-sized apartments per floor, now called studio apartments, and occupied mostly by meatheads like me. Except next door. My neighbors were original.
I don’t think they were there in the 1850’s but not far from it. I don’t remember ever seeing them until that night, but I heard them plenty. They were mostly quiet during the day. Some stirrings and shiftings, some cooking smells. A bump now and again. A grunt, a quiet curse. Then the night came. If they stayed home there was a TV. Loud, but not loud enough to drown out the fighting. That began with the drinking I would guess and got louder and louder. “Fucking bitch,” and “asshole” and “you shit- stained mother-fucker, why in hell did I ever marry you,” and “get your fucking hands off of me, look at that silly asshole, I hate this show.” If they went out for the night the courtyard outside my window would start to echo with their squeals when the bars closed. “...it was Trixie that hit first dumb-ass. I saw it. I was right up in the bitches face.” “Whoever hit first, it was the funniest god damn thing I ever saw. Both of them cows going tits over ass off their stools!” And they would scream with laughter and cough and hack up tar colored phlegm and laugh some more. They’d help each other up the stairs, bumping into walls and fumble outside my door for their keys. “Why even lock this dump?” “They can have it. Fucking thieves can take it all!.” “Shut up you old bitch. Your drunk and making no goddamn sense.” “Fuck you.” “Fuck you too.” And the door would close and they would go to sleep.
This night it was later than usual, and hot. I was lying on a nylon hammock I had strung across the main room, trying to sleep. I had heard my neighbors leave earlier. Now they were back and she was crying. “Leave me alone! leave me alone.” “I can’t fucking believe it. I can’t fucking believe the filthy filth of it!” “shut-up, please just leave me alone and shut up!!” “I swear to christ, I swear on your mothers cunt that I will come down on you like a shit ton of bricks if—,” ”You leave my mothers cunt out of this!!!” I listened, hoping it would end soon. It was worse than usual. It was hot. All the windows were open and the whole world heard. “Ahhhhh! I can’t take it! Don’t look at me like that!” And they stumbled up the stairs and the door slammed.
It wasn’t long before it was quiet. Very quiet, for a long time. Then the music started. A high pitched flute-like sound drawing a slow mournful melody across the humidity. I opened my door and looked out. The sound came from their apartment across the hall. The smell of incense drifted through the cracks in their door. It started to open. I shut my door quietly and listened. Some bells, like sleigh bells or jingle bells shook with footsteps. The flute played. I peered through the peephole. A shadow made its way up the stairs. I followed.
The door pushed open with little sound. The roof was glowing with a waxing moon. The old man was standing on the ledge. He wore a head dress of feathers, and played a hand carved wooden flute as bells hung from his wrists and ankles. A black bird sat on his shoulder, then flew away.
I moved the next day, as the paint ran down the wall. As I turned North onto Hudson I passed the gurney coming in to get her.