Last night I had the strangest dream. Barack Obama was receiving all his dress shirts from a top religious leader, and then it was unearthed by the media that the religious leader was actually getting them from Men’s Warehouse for $39.99 each. (!) A big scandal ensued–which I was in the middle of living–when all of a sudden I heard two little indians galloping on their horses and hooting and hollering in the apartment above me. I was jarred awake.
And in an instant bad-mood.
You see, it was just before 7 am. And my day off.
I lay there for a moment, thinking it might stop.
I got out of bed and found my umbrella on the doorknob. I poked at the ceiling a few times.
The galloping continued.
I prodded the ceiling with fervor.
It sounded like the rockettes had gotten totally wasted and then decided to hold rehearsals.
“I’ll take care of this,” I told Pablo, who promptly went back to sleep. I put on some clothes and marched upstairs.
And guess what I found on the other side of that door?
You guessed it. Frenchies!
As an aside, my new apartment is, as one friend put it, kind of bohemian. Barefoot in the Park-esque, he said. And that made me see things in a whole new way. Suddenly it was less of a firetrap and more of a refuge. True, there is a certain charm to it. It made me kind of proud of the fact that the shower is in the kitchen, and there are all kinds of random tourists lurking about, as the landlord seems to illegally rent most of the other apartments as a sort of rogue hotel.
But back to the Frenchie. Of course, the man who opened the door spoke little English. He was a doughy-faced man with little, round glasses. I knew I could take him. So I swooped in with my best French ‘tude.
“Do you know what time it is?!” I asked, flailing my hands in the air.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Your children are making a lot of noise.”
He stared at me.
“A LOT. I don’t know what they’re doing up there….” I blanked out. Holy shit, what is the word for gallop again? I began galloping in place.
The Frenchie remained expressionless.
Just then, a woman appeared from behind the door. “Oh it’s just the time change… they’re going to calm down now.”
And she disappeared again.
“It really bothers me.” I continued. “This is not a hotel, contrary to what you might think. I live here.”
“It’s my day off.”
“It’s 7 in the morning.”
He spoke: “Okay.”
“Okay?” I asked. “You aren’t even going to apologize?”
“Non,” he said.
“You owe me an apology,” I insisted.
“Last night someone was making a lot of noise. And I think it was YOU.” he said flatly.
I froze. I wasn’t even home last night, and when I did get home, I lounged on the couch reading an Agatha Christie novel. Could Pablo be leading a double life?
I looked at him coldly. “It wasn’t me. You need to control your children.”
We were in a stare-down. Finally, he acquiesced.
“Fine. Je m’excuse,” he mumbled.
“Bonne vacances,” I replied.
He shut the door.
And strangely, I felt a strange sense of calm come over me.
I felt the most peaceful I’ve felt in weeks.
But I never did find out what happened with the Men’s Warehouse shirt scandal.