Rocky V rocks my world. Wait, Rocky VI. No, it’s Rocky VII.

So last evening I sat watching TV with the volume cranked up to 39. The deaf grandma level.

Why? ‘Cause the new neighbor upstairs has got a treadmill.

And lemme tell you, he runs on that baby like he’s fleeing a pack of hungry wolves.

Or to maintain peak condition for life in the gritty and gang-infested Tacoma.

He did after all just move here from Ohio. Perhaps he arrived aware of Tacoma’s reputation for danger and wants to be prepared. After all, the town’s been featured so many times on “Cops” that the city finally told the show’s producers, “Enough, you can’t film here anymore.”

Or perhaps he’s up on Tacoma’s links to famous criminals like Ted Bundy and the D.C. snipers.

Or maybe he was advised when he got here that if objects to packing a weapon, at least be of fit and nimble feet.

Whatever his athletic motivation, he takes fitness seriously, plunging into it with such vim and vigor that in my irritation, I missed the entire hourlong Food Network show. Despite its thunderous volume of 39.

Speaking of thunderous, just when it looked like peace was restored when the running quieted and the ceiling quit quaking and the pictures on my wall stopped rattling and the Richter scale needle quit dancing and the TV volume was restored to a reasonable level, he’d start up with his other exercise.

Which can only be best described as a wildebeest hopping the sidestep. Over and over and over. And directly over my head.

Back and forth he went, from running to sidestepping to running to sidestepping that shook the rafters.

Now, my building’s three years shy of 100. Wood floors. No insulation. I mean nada, zero, zip. Wasn’t required at the time.

So every sound carries.

I’m accustomed to creaking noises and footsteps above. The former resident was a big strapping military fella, yet his footsteps were dainty. Relatively.

This new dude is about half his size. And he has the steps of a sumo wrestler.

Why, just this morning I was awakened – not for the first time – from a dead slumber as he began his day. I pried open my eyes just enough to squint at the clock. The green digits read 6:50.

Damn! What does a girl hafta do to get some real sleep around here, a morphine-valium drip?!?

Spoken like someone struggling with ongoing severe insomnia.

So I lay listening to him moving about from one end of his studio to the other until silence returned, marking his departure for work, and only then thereafter slumber.

As if my Apartment S wasn’t bad enough with its dark spirits and hauntings and traumas and history of violence and murders and suicide and vortexes and grief and leilines and losses and loneliness — all reasons to salt and concrete the place over and I mean that most sincerely — now there’s a Rocky Balboa living above.

For now. And as long as the ceiling holds.


6 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Karyn @ kloppenmum
    Apr 11, 2011 @ 19:13:46

    Oh dear… I hope that ceiling does hold for you.
    When do you move?


  2. fotografzahl
    Apr 12, 2011 @ 06:49:34

    Sorry to hear that…
    I guess you must focus on the day you are going to move.
    Another good reason for you to leave this place. 😉


    • allycatadventures
      Apr 12, 2011 @ 13:13:11

      @fotografzahl – You betcha! There are 1,001 reasons to leave this place! All of ’em inked on the pages of my journals. If fireworks were allowed in my town, I might well set them off the last time I close and walk away, no looking back!!!


  3. trayflow
    Apr 14, 2011 @ 02:44:37

    Maybe he will scare the rats away.


    • allycatadventures
      Apr 14, 2011 @ 11:49:24

      @trayflow – hahah, if only! Actually, the rats’ nest is one apartment over (i.e., below athletic dude’s neighbor). And they’re apparently noise-immune. I’ve pounded my ceiling so HARD so many times to send ’em away. Nuthin’. And 10 seconds later, they’re back to scritch-scritch-scritching, mocking me. 😦


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