Thesis

           I'm gonna kill him. I swear to God, I'm going to kill him. Take a few deep breaths. My thesis for my law license is due at the end of the week and my next door neighbor has Down's Syndrome, so from 6:30 am to 9:00 pm every day I hear, “I farted. I upchucked. It's stinky. It's pungent. Diesel. Am I blinding you. I'm bright. I farted. Wow. I farted bad” and on and on it goes. I've tried buying noise-canceling headphones, but he's too loud. They work, but not enough. I've tried going out of my apartment, into the woods, but I can still hear him in the woods. I've tried leaving, but I have a desk-top computer, so this is where I need to work; at my desktop. Goddamn it. 

           Sometimes I think about shooting him. Go to a local gun store, buy a riffle and bullets and just fucking shoot him. Worry about cops? I don't have to. I have multiple videos of this goddamn son-of-a-bitch being violent like slamming the door into the wall over and over until the door knob makes a hole in the wall. But, the FHA (Fair Housing Act) prevents discrimination of housing on the basis of disability, but I'm the one who feels disabled by him.  One week. Son-of-a-bitch. Why one week and why didn't my parents get me a laptop? At least with a laptop I could write my dissertation at the library where it's quiet or at least quieter than here.

           “I farted. It's stinky. It's pungent”. Sometimes I get angry with him and yell at him at the top of my lungs. Things like, “Shut the fuck up, you goddamn breaddead imbicele. But then, he gets more angry and more violent and makes more noise. One week. Why couldn't this motherfucking moron get laringitis? Why? Please God give my neighbor laringitis. Or, I remember the girl I had a crush on in high school. We were in a musical together. Lawyers often start out wanting to be actors. But, a week before the show, she'd been singing so much, she lost her voice so her double had to perform for her. Why doesn't this fucking moron lose his voice since he's screaming bullshit at the top of his fucking lungs from the time he gets up 'til he goes to bed? Why, God, why? 

           There are times, too, when I think of killing myself. If I killed myself, I wouldn't have to worry about my thesis, I would have peace and quiet, and I could just sleep and do nothing. That's called retirement, but in my case death could be an early retirement. Think about it. The professors wouldn't be pressuring me to get the thesis done, I wouldn't have to hear this bullshit next door, I'd just have peace, quiet, rest, relaxation. But, people would be hurt. My relatives for one and my friends. Besides, I would like something nice written on my gravestone like, “Loving father, brother,” etc. I don't believe in Heaven and Hell, but you never know.

           So, what I decide to do is fuck with his head. He never gets out of his apartment, so I invite him out for a fun time and, since he doesn't have a lot of friends, he accepts. So, I think about where I can take him where we won't get kicked out and what I can afford on a college budget. Then, I think of it. An escape room. I can take him to an escape room. This is a room where you have to find hints in order to escape it and considering my roommate isn't a genious (which is an understatement) and I take him to an untimed room (internet search said there are two untimed escape rooms in Chicago), I could put him in one of these and let him ponder the clues until my thesis is complete. I have 25 pages minimal to go.

*

           So, I take him and I pay for the room and I tell him I'd give him the privoledge of going first and he smiles and accepts and he goes in. The second I hear the door lock, I run out, catch the subway back home and it's beautiful. There is silence. Absolute, complete silence and nobody's dead. I get out my books and I can hear myself think and write quotes and make work cited connotations, and it's beautiful. I can hear myself think. In five hours, my dissertation is complete and I'm ready to have my professor look at my draft. 

*

           Then, I hear the knock on my door. 

           “I farted? Was it stinky? That's why you left right? 'Cause I farted?”

           “No,” I said. “I left because you keep talking.”

           “Did you hear me snoring last night? I snore real loud.”

           “It isn't your snoring. It's your talking.” Calm down.  My paper is done and just needs editing by my professor, so why not fuck around with him?”

           “Does it smell?” he asks

           “Wait,” I say. “Something smells but it ain't your farts.”

           “It smells?” he asks.

           “Smells like smoke” I say.

           “Smoke? My fart smells like smoke? Wow. It's stinky.”

           “Maybe you should pull the fire alarm,” I say.

           And believe it or not, this man pulls the fire alarm and walks outside and I walk outside and we start hearing sirens. Then, we see the police, fire, and ambulances coming to our apartment complexes. They enter the building and open everyone's apartment and there's no fire. Then, the chief fireman says, “Ok. Who pulled the fire alarm?” and my idiot friend raises his hand. And the chief fireman asks, “What happened?”

           And my friend said, “I farted. It's sticky. It's smokey. It set off the smoke alarm.”

           And then the beauty started. The police arrested him for calling 911/pulling an alarm when there was no emergency, which is a crime and my friend was arrested and read his moranda rights. And he was placed in the back of the police car where he kept saying, “I farted. It was me. It's stinky. It smells like diesel. I did.” And all the other bullshit. 

           I went to the supermarket and picked up a ribeye steak, Baby Ray's BBQ Sauce, fries, and some beer and I celebrated.  I turned on some soft classic rock and congratulated myself. Not only had I gotten rid of the fucking moron, but I'd finished my dissertation and now had peace, quiet, and serenity. Ahh.

           Then, I hear a knock on the next door: “George. You there, George?” It's a woman's voice. Someone's dating this idiot? Who? Why? How? Then, I hear, “It's your mother, George. I just wanna talk to you” but George is in jail. I hear more knocking: “George?”

           So. I open my door and explain to this woman that George was escorted to the police station by the police. And she asks me, “Why? What did George do?” and I explain how he pulled the fire alarm when there wasn't a fire. Then, this heavy woman falled to her knees and cried. Her face red, she said, “I needed you to make it on your own, George. I need alone time, but now . . .” After five minutes, she got up and asked me, “Which police station did they take him to?” and I did my best to answer. Then, with the look of a charging bull, George's mother said, “Momma's coming George and she's gonna get you out. She's gonna get you out.”