Sunday, August 19, 2007
Creole Amen
At about 9:45 AM I'd been awake for 1/2 an hour. I was trying to listen to the news on the clock radio & be patient. The radio hadn't wakened me, I'd turned it on. What roused me was Haitian pentecostal music in the next apartment. & now I could hear the man singing along with it. It's been louder, a lot louder. Last Sunday the Praise the Lord in Creole went on for nearly six hours, mid-afternoon to after 9 pm. I didn't complain then. I was afraid he was in a trance. But it'd never started this early. I couldn't concentrate on the news. I wanted to go back to sleep for a little while. Finally, I pulled on some jeans & went into the hall & listened. Oh yeah, I wasn't making something of nothing. I knocked on his door, four times, hard, & waited. I heard his two kids on the other side, heard them run to get their father. I waited. The door opened about a foot & there he was, short black man, in his jockey shorts, looking at me suspiciously, with something else in his expression, what was it, contempt? He's a scappy small guy with a temper, once kicked his door open when his wife deliberately locked him out. That was over a year ago.
"Your music is too loud. Please turn it down."
"It's not loud." (Music blaring from behind him, through the open door.)
"If I'm out here on Sunday morning saying it's too loud, it's too loud."
"Oh yeah?" He stared at me, the kind of look that would get you knifed on the subway if you did it to a gang banger. Is he disrespecting me? He's looking at a bleary-eyed, skinny, older white guy. His English isn't good. He knows he's pissed me off before. But he is a holy roller Christian.
"OK. I'm not going to stand here & argue or yell," I said. "It's too loud & if you don't turn it down you're going to have problems with the landlord. That's all." I went back to my apartment.
The music stayed at the same level for about 5 minutes. He's the boss because he controls his own stereo system? Well alright. I wasn't gonna be passive-aggressive about it. No notes taped to his door. No banging on the wall with the Collegiate Dictionary with the imitation leather hardcover. No pulling the dusty guitar amp out of the closet, plugging the small boombox into it, cranking up the bass, aiming it at his wall, & introducing him to some of the more adventurous modern music in my collection, or Neil Young with Crazy Horse, or Bach's Mass in B Minor, or the Javanese gamelan orchestra known as "The Venerable Thunder of Flowers." I've never gone directly to the landlord with problems here, even the overflowing bathtub upstairs was settled through the building handyman, I didn't complain about the tenant to the landlord. But whenever the landlord sees me he asks if I have any problems with my neighbors, & he's never had to replace a door I broke down.
Suddenly, the volume dropped. I could still hear the music, but I could tune it out. That's all I ask. I turned off the news, took one ibuprophen, read a few pages of a mystery novel, & snoozed. Hopefully, he'll keep it down for a few weeks.
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
"Your music is too loud. Please turn it down."
"It's not loud." (Music blaring from behind him, through the open door.)
"If I'm out here on Sunday morning saying it's too loud, it's too loud."
"Oh yeah?" He stared at me, the kind of look that would get you knifed on the subway if you did it to a gang banger. Is he disrespecting me? He's looking at a bleary-eyed, skinny, older white guy. His English isn't good. He knows he's pissed me off before. But he is a holy roller Christian.
"OK. I'm not going to stand here & argue or yell," I said. "It's too loud & if you don't turn it down you're going to have problems with the landlord. That's all." I went back to my apartment.
The music stayed at the same level for about 5 minutes. He's the boss because he controls his own stereo system? Well alright. I wasn't gonna be passive-aggressive about it. No notes taped to his door. No banging on the wall with the Collegiate Dictionary with the imitation leather hardcover. No pulling the dusty guitar amp out of the closet, plugging the small boombox into it, cranking up the bass, aiming it at his wall, & introducing him to some of the more adventurous modern music in my collection, or Neil Young with Crazy Horse, or Bach's Mass in B Minor, or the Javanese gamelan orchestra known as "The Venerable Thunder of Flowers." I've never gone directly to the landlord with problems here, even the overflowing bathtub upstairs was settled through the building handyman, I didn't complain about the tenant to the landlord. But whenever the landlord sees me he asks if I have any problems with my neighbors, & he's never had to replace a door I broke down.
Suddenly, the volume dropped. I could still hear the music, but I could tune it out. That's all I ask. I turned off the news, took one ibuprophen, read a few pages of a mystery novel, & snoozed. Hopefully, he'll keep it down for a few weeks.
Labels: home furnishings, religion
