Chapter 6
EVEN THOUGH I have my own compact kitchen with a little two-burner stovetop, I’m once again ordering takeout tonight.
And yet again, my call to the restaurant is being drowned out by my neighbour’s electric guitar.
Between his amplifier and the thin walls in this relatively old building, I’m pretty much being treated to a private show. Again.
No! The fu yung hai with noodles! I scream into my phone. And the gado-gado with extra peanut sauce!
Ma’am, could you turn your music down, please? says the voice on the other side of the line. I can’t hear you very well.
Sir, believe me. I would if I could.
What?!
I’ll just order online! I end my call and aim a furious stare at the shared wall between myself and the object of my neck-wringing fantasies.
I kind of hate ordering through food delivery apps, since they take such an unreasonable cut of the restaurant’s money.
Reluctantly, I scroll through the app and place my order.
I really should go for a grocery run and actually buy some food that’s nutritious, with vitamins and stuff. Cooking is usually fun for me, but the lack of kitchenware is killing my enthusiasm a little.
Knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door, sings the gravelly voice next door. If it wasn’t for that same voice keeping me awake last night, I might actually be able to appreciate it.
I slowly breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
It’s only seven thirty—hardly an unreasonable hour.
If he’s still showcasing Kanye-level delusions of grandeur at eleven, I’ll go say something about it.
I haven’t even made any friends here yet and I don’t exactly want to make another enemy, but it does take two to tango.
When the doorbell rings, my stomach lets out a noisy growl and I buzz in the delivery person.
I haven’t eaten anything since lunch and the prospect of a greasy meal never fails to make my mouth water and send my insides into ecstasy.
Once I’ve paid for my food and the delivery person has left, I dump the contents of the cardboard containers onto a plate.
The folks at my local takeout place in Amsterdam are hardly stingy with their serving sizes, but I think the generous portions here in New York are going to leave me with leftovers for days.
I turn on my TV and pick out a random movie that seems fun. Slurping up my noodles, I turn up the volume in an attempt to drown out the music. When that fails, I turn on the subtitles, but I spend so much time shooting daggers at the shared wall that it’s kind of hard to get into the movie.
Once the end credits hit the screen, I hop in the shower—still feeling annoyed—before I pull on my pyjamas, braid my hair, and brush my teeth.
My neighbour still shows no signs of wrapping up this grandiose audio production of his.
I crawl into bed and focus a seething stare on the ceiling, only to hear the guitar let out a monumental wail.
I flip over onto my side so I can smash my pillow into my ear.
Ever since I landed, I haven’t had one single moment of decent sleep.
Between the jet lag and the long hours at work, I should be spending my nights resting up instead of being rudely disrupted.
That’s it. Enough.
With a raging growl, I swing my legs off the bed and shove my feet into my bunny slippers. Channelling the determination of an unfed African forest elephant with its eye on a bag of peanuts, I stomp toward my neighbour’s place and pound on his door.
Nothing.
Human force meets medieval battering ram when I raise up two fists and bang even harder on the wooden door. Things go quiet on the other side of the door until I hear some fumbling. My heart is slamming in my chest as I attempt to tuck away my fury and put on my cheeriest, most rested smile.
I hear a mechanical click before the door slowly opens.
Just as I’m about to speak, my breath catches in my throat as I find myself staring straight into a pair of green-brown eyes—minus the eyeliner this time.
His face is framed by tousled dark hair and I watch his expression shift gradually from puzzled to annoyed.
Jeez, you guys are back at it already? he asks. There’s annoyance in his voice. It’s still only September! Fine. I guess I’ll take a box of those Thin Mints.
I blink a few times and give him a bewildered look.
The Thin Mints? he repeats, emphasis on the word mints this time, like he thinks I didn’t hear him properly. You know, those chocolate-mint cookies?
My jaw drops and my eyes go wide in outrage when I realize what’s happening. Offended, I shout out, I’m not a girl scout!
I might be short, but I’m very obviously not a twelve-year-old. And either way, girl scouts aren’t really known for stopping by crack houses at 11 p.m. to sell cookies to strange men.
Oh, the airplane jerk replies, with a quick glance from my bedtime braids to my shirt. Cute jammies.
I register the shift in his eyes and curse under my breath.
The pyjamas I bought at Disneyland Paris a few years ago have become absolute favourites, but this is hardly the kind of outfit that screams dateable woman who is definitely of age.
The PJs are pink with a repeating pattern of jolly Mickey and Minnie Mouse faces all over the soft cotton fabric.
My hands squeeze into fists as I fire my most menacing glare his way. All I get from him in return is an amused look.
Listen, I rage, I have no idea whether you have a day job or you’re just living off of mommy and daddy’s money, but some of us need to work for a living.
It’s eleven at night and I’m supposed to be at the office first thing in the morning.
So you think maybe—just maybe—you could bring your volume down slightly below the decibel level of a low-flying fighter jet?
The man seems peeved as his dark eyebrows slide up his forehead.
Thanks, I say, before he has a chance to respond. I spin around and I’m about to walk away when his voice stops me in my tracks.
Hey, you’re that chick from the airplane, he realizes with a chuckle.
I turn back to face him. He suddenly looks a lot happier than he did on the flight—probably because now he can start plotting his payback for my Jack Sparrow joke. Even though I feel like any payback has been more than covered by his sonic mayhem over these past few nights.
I didn’t recognize you in those . . . His gaze lingers on my pyjamas as a corner of his mouth quirks up. . . . pigtails.
Pissed off, I return his stare and run my fingers along my blonde braids before defiantly crossing my arms in front of me.
Yep, that’s me, I grumble. And I would very much appreciate it if you could be a better neighbour here than you were on the plane. We don’t have to become best friends or anything, but could you please stop playing around ten? Or at the very least put on some headphones?
The man tilts his head to one side. He’s provoking me. What happens if I don’t want to...?
Then . . . Then . . . I shake my head as I consider involving the landlord, which would only mean creating an enemy whose bedroom is barely a few feet away from my own.
Please? I finally ask softly.
The eyelinerless Jack Sparrow runs a hand through his hair as he lets out a deep sigh. Fine. I’ll do what I can, he finally concedes. I lucked out with the last tenant who was almost never home. She worked at a casino and would stay out most nights. I’ll try to take it easy, okay?
There’s a questioning look in his eye and I give him a grateful nod.
Great. His eyes shift down to take in my pyjama bottoms, all decked out in miniature Minnies and Mickeys standing by a Christmas tree. Have a good sleep, I guess, Bluebird.
I’m confused by the last bit. Blue Bird?
Rudy responds with a crooked smile. Ya, Bluebird—they’re a type of girl scout. My sister was one.
And at those words, he disappears behind his closed door while I stare after him, blankly.