I bang?

Hello friends and neighbors,

It seems my neighbor can no longer be depended upon to have loud sex every Saturday afternoon (selfish bitch). That, coupled with the fact that people are actually reading (and perhaps enjoying) this blog means I have to fill the empty space between the, now inconsistent but let's hope not non-existent, bangings. And while I would love to expand the purview of this blog to include the lascivious actions heard through the thin walls between my and my roommate's bedrooms, the truth of the matter is twofold. First, that would not be cool. But second, the reality is this; the worst (or loudest) noises I hear through that wall are a.) sci-fi audio plays (The boy is a fan of The Doctor) and b.) him yelling at his computer. Like really yelling. Like "HolyshitIthinkhe'sreallypissedoff" yelling. Let it never be said that my roommate does not know a four-letter word or two himself. Despite my age (34) and regular access to the internet (high speed even), the words I've heard come from that room have made even me, a four-letter wordsmith in my own right, blush.

Sadly, I share walls with no other inhabitants of my apartment building. And while there are numerous other apartment buildings in the area, I've yet hear or see any other amorous activities. Worry not though reader, I promise to (creepily) keep an ear and eye out, when I can. So, in the meantime, I have opted to tell a story of my own literal banging that said neighbors may have overheard late one night a few weeks ago.

It looks as though, without noticing, I have become an old man. My knees creak. My back aches. I regularly bitch about those younger than me and their (befuddling) music choices. And, at least once a night, I get up to pee.

It was during one of these nightly excursions recently that I came to be locked in my bedroom, at 3am, with my roommate in Long Beach. Did I mention I had to pee? 

Previous to this, my bedroom doorknob would occasionally stick. Throw a little effort into it, give it a little extra shoulder as it were and it would turn no problem. That night? Problem. Despite my strongest attempts, the door would not open. The knob would not turn. I was stuck. And did I mention I had to pee?

My doorknob, post "banging"

Mechanical genius that I am (not), I figured  I could just pop the doorknob off from my side. Then I would be able to take it apart, get the door open and deal with the repercu$$ions later. Not having any kind of tool kit in my bedroom and really having to pee (did I mention that?), I took a 5lb dumbbell and started swinging, "banging" if you will. Soon, through the power of my (pee-filled) rage, that knob popped right off and I started digging around. Pieces fell out and tears of joy and adulation streamed down my cheek.

I was out! I had to be! The doorknob was now in pieces in my bed. I threw down the dumbbell, grabbed what was left of the space where the knob was, still seeing parts from the other side, and pulled. And pulled. And pulled. Shit.

Look, all I know about doors and knobs comes from movies & tv. You always hear how easy it is to break out of a vault, right? "A vault is designed to keep people out, not in." So how different could a doorknob be? Fuck if I know. Hell, I may have made it worse. All I know is that the door was still closed, I was still stuck and I still had to pee.

So I called my roommate, Tim, who was in Long Beach with his lady friend (I wonder if any of her neighbors have a similar blog. Zing!). I explain the situation and that I need to get a hold of Roger, the building manager.

After sitting on my bed for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out a way for Tim to get me the number, I realize I'm in my bedroom and I own both pens and paper. Hey, when I'm tired (and I have to pee), I'm not the brightest.

Finally, I hang up with Tim and call Roger. Apparently Roger isn't the brightest at that time of night either. I explain that I'm Ryan in apartment #11 (Roger lives in #12, across the hall) and that my bedroom door won't open. He says he'll be right over. So, I wait.

Ten minutes later, no Roger. Thinking he might have to go . . . . somewhere to get . . . some tools,  I give it another few minutes.

Twenty minutes from the original call, still no Roger. So I call him back. Below is a near spot on transcript of said conversation.

"Yeah?" he inquires, answering the phone. 

"Roger?" I inquire back.

"Yeah," he replied.

"It's Ryan, in apartment #11."

"Ok."

"Are you coming to get me out?"

"What?!?!"

At this point, Roger is audibly confused. My thoughts are that he fell asleep and I am re-waking him up. So I remind him of the situation.

"I'm stuck in my bedroom. I can't get out."

"You're stuck?"

"Yes," frustration building.

"Again????"

"Huh?" frustration swiftly replaced by confusion.

"You're stuck again?!?!?" Roger asks, now seemingly frustrated with me.

Still confused, I inform Roger that "No, in fact I am not 'stuck again,' but that I am 'still stuck."

"But I just let you out."

At this point, yeah, I have no clue how to respond. All I can do is re-reiterate the situation.

"This is Ryan, in apartment #11, across the hall from you. I tried to get up to go to the bathroom and my bedroom door would not open. So, no, Roger, I can assure you, you did not 'just let me out.'"

"Ryan?"

"Yes."

"In apartment 11?"

"Yes."

"Not Brian in apartment 19?"

"No. Not Brian in apartment 19."

"Ok, I be right over."

At this point, two thoughts are running through my head. The first, maniacal laughter. Seriously, I couldn't stop laughing. I mean, I wasn't in danger. Thankfully there was no fire. The worst that could happen in that moment was that I would either pee in my garbage can or out the window (both of which I considered long before calling Roger the 2nd time). My other thought though was when Roger got to "Brian's" and "Brian" was not stuck in his bedroom, why did he not call me back? As I pondered that, I heard Roger enter downstairs.

Still stuck

Apologies offered, he went to work on the doorknob from the other side. He actually gets the doorknob off but the bolt mechanism (this is the part that keeps your door closed. Keeping up with the overall theme of the blog, it, ahem, goes in the hole, so to speak.) is stuck. So even with the doorknob in pieces, the door will not open. By now, I stop taking pictures and offer to help. 

"Maybe we should pop it off the hinges?" I suggest.

Agreeing, Roger passes me a screwdriver through the hole (Zing . . . ?). I take a look at the hinges and realize they've been painted over and the pegs are stuck. ("Stuck" being the word of the day. Aaaahhhh!!!!) No other option presents itself, so I start scraping and banging. Eventually, I get the pegs out and the door still will not open! (Quality paint! I must find the manufacturer!)

Free at last!

Finally, Roger tells me to "hold the door from the side." I have no idea what he means by that, but before I can ask for clarification, Roger has crashed into the door. Still stuck. Taking a few steps back, he gets as much of a running start as he can and tries again. Still stuck. Finally, after 3 attempts, the door pops off! Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, [I am] free at last! We then take the bolt mechanism out of the now destroyed door frame, put the door back on the hinges and commiserate briefly on the whole experience. 

I finally thank Roger (who can be a bit of a talker, even at 3am), send him on his way and head back to bed. Five minutes later I realize why I got up in the first place and go pee.

I gotta tell you, dear readers, I was making a lot of noise that night. Yelling, banging, punching things. And not once, not a single time, did my neighbor bang on the wall. Man, I really wish I was as deep a sleeper as apparently she is, especially on Saturday afternoons.

Until next time . . . .

--RDT