White Noise

*Content Warning: Mental Health and Substance Abuse*

Apartment life can be noisy. Close proximity to others living their own timelines can lead to- misunderstandings. I was always taught to mind my own, to stay in my lane and let people figure out problems by themselves. 

No use sticking a clean nose into shit, my mother used to say between thick clouds of smoke, gnawed unfiltered camel hanging from her thin dry lips. It’s a good rule, keeps you on the straight and narrow and helps avoid trouble. 

I stuck to this rule even when I moved into my 686 sq ft single bed in Dorchester. There were several sorted characters that lived in my complex at that time, most harmless, some not so much. As long as I kept my nose to the sky nobody bothered me. 

There was one resident, a middle aged woman who lived below me with a man I presumed to be her husband. I never saw them but I could always hear them. They would start their arguments at night, 8PM on the dot like clockwork. Softly at first, a quiet hushed back and forth like they were trying to keep the scuffle between them. Eventually, caution would be thrown out the window and full fledged screaming matches shook my floor.

I could never quite make out exactly what they would fight about, but they would rage for hours. What stuck with me most was the man's voice. There was something strange about it, a deep baritone growl that held a demonic rasp; an almost inhuman quality to it. 

Sometimes there would be thumping sounds or a clatter here and there, shattering glass or a muffled roar. There were times I'll admit, it was hard to ignore. Coupled with that nagging voice in the back of my head telling me to, do something damnit!  

It never quite won out though. 

A fearful mind, or one can argue a rational one, doesn’t rush into situations without all the information. They don’t play the hero, they play it safe. They let someone else save the day while cheering from the sidelines. But what happens when everyone turns away and nobody steps up? 

No use sticking a clean nose into shit.

~~~~

The night was cold, spirals of frost forming at the base of my drafty window. January in Boston is a dreadful thing, frigid gales from the Atlantic can send temperatures plummeting close to 24 degrees. They started at 8PM as expected, but this time felt different. 

It was louder, like they skipped over the part where whispering was the only acceptable form of communication straight to vicious snarls. They barked at each other like rabid dogs, a visceral hate bubbling in the ugly stew of words they threw at one another. 

They went on like this for a while, the man's same chilling distorted growl overwhelming hers. For some reason I decided that night I would try to get a better listen, yanking a squealing window from its home, and poking my head out. Their voices were clearer now, their own window open allowing the frigid winds to carry parts of their dispute up to me. 

“Useless bitch…. Die alone… all your fault…” and “Never meant to… it wasn’t me… stop…” came and went in seconds before being whisked into the night. Whatever these two were arguing about, it was not pretty. 

Then it got violent. Sounds of grunting bodies being tossed into walls, sending pictures shattering to the floor. Glass exploding against the ground mixed with huffing breaths. Then, nothing. A crescendo of noise suddenly stopped before it could reach its climax leaving nothing but unanswered questions and silence. It was at this moment, that inner voice won. 

Do something, damnit!

The cherry lipped brunette working the front desk took her time looking up from the phone she was scrolling on. Her worn out plastic name tag had the name Daphne scribbled in sharpie.  

  “Need something?” she sighed, dragging a set of tiered brown eyes outlined with dark smudged liner to meet mine.

  “The couple that lives below me, in 201. I think something is wrong.” 

  “Oh?” 

  “I heard a pretty serious argument, I think it got violent.”

  “Oh.”

  “Someone needs to check on that.”

  “Look hun, I just hand out keys. I don’t get involved in the residents' personal lives.”

  “You have to do something.”

  “I can’t do anything unless there's a noise complaint.”

   “Well, I’d like to file a noise complaint.” 

She popped a few pink bubbles from the wad of gum she was chewing, eyes narrowed into irritated slits before reaching under the desk for a set of keys- and a worn out baseball bat. 

  “Nothing good happens after 2AM.” she shrugged leading us towards the staircase. 

When we got to the hallway, things were quiet, dim incandescent bulbs buzzing eerily above. Daphne rapped a few times on the door and stepped back.

  “Front desk, is everything okay in there?”

No one answered. She knocked again.

  “Front desk. We got a noise complaint, I need to talk to you about it.” 

Still, nothing. A cool draft was wafting from beneath the door carrying an unpleasant stench out with it. Daphne and I exchanged nervous glances before she gathered a breath and went for the keys clipped to her hip.

  “We’re coming in.” 

It took her a moment to find the right one, sliding the steel into the lock and clicking the deadbolt. Slowly, she pushed the door open, hinges creaking with complaint. A wave of cool air mixed with a smell that can be only described at shit greeted us first. Daphne and I had to cover our mouths and noses to keep from gagging on it. It was so thick I could feel it solidifying in my lungs. 

Apartment 201 was in shambles. Several glowing eyes blinked at us from the dark. Cats, too many to count, hissed and yowled from various perches around the room. Some darted for cover when I switched on the lights, sending empty silver canisters crashing to the floor.

  “What is that smell?” Daphne swallowed down a lurch. 

  “Litter boxes.” I pointed to the piles of cat feces buzzing with flies.

There was junk everywhere. Furniture littered with old magazines, clothes, and overstuffed cardboard boxes ready to burst almost touched the ceiling. The walls that we could see were lined with several crooked pictures hanging precariously from sagging tacks. One faded golden framed photo stuck out in particular. 

An older woman with long curly silver locks brandishing a wide smile that touched her bright green eyes. Her face was pressed firmly against a mousey looking man with a fat nose sporting a similar gleeful grin. They were on a boat, a bright blue sea appearing almost glass like behind them.

They looked- happy. 

Suddenly, a bump sounded from the bedroom. Every learned instinct told me to leave that room, to walk away, but something stronger pushed me forward. 

Daphne and I found her, naked, face up on a piss stained mattress, her thin skin turned blue from the freeze blowing in the open window. We needed to wade through piles of several more empty silver canisters to get to her. She was still breathing, but she was very cold. We called an ambulance and soon enough she was carted off safe and sound.

The strangest part though, we found nobody else in that apartment. 

I later learned, after Daphne did some digging, she had always been its only occupant. The woman, Mrs. Greyson, had moved into the Westfield complex eight years ago, after losing her husband when a drunk driver slammed him off the road.

And that strange demonic voice I had heard? It turns out Mrs. Greyson had become addicted to whippets- nitrous oxide. Apparently it can cause hallucinations, psychosis, and horrifying voice changes. Poor thing had been high off her ass arguing with herself, night after night. No one ever came to visit her, or talk to her and she rarely left her room. Just a lonely woman broken by life and others mistakes.

~~~~~

It’s March now and Boston has started to shake off the last chills of winter, footsteps of spring fast approaching. I trot up the complex steps, balancing the cardboard coffee tray with two large steaming green teas snugged in each corner; signature corn muffin as the centerpiece. 

Daphne offers me a lazy wave as I pass, eyes still glued to that screen. It takes two knocks before the door to 201 is swinging open and Mrs. Greyson is greeting me with a warm smile. She takes my coat and we settle on the now clear couch, teas clasped in hand, fat yellow glob of butter melting beautifully down the toasted muffin. 

This has become our Saturday ritual, we call it “trash and tea” days. A quick snack and a sip, then we spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning to Lionel Richie records. There is still plenty of work to be done, but her apartment has come a long way, and so has she. I’ve learned a lot about Mrs. Greyson and I've found she's actually a very lovely woman despite a life full of tragedy. I'm glad I got to meet her.

Sometimes I think about what could have happened if I stuck to my rule that night and ignored what I heard. Mrs. Greyson could have died, or continued using until she eventually did. And, I would have never gained such an unlikely friend. 

Besides, no use sticking a clean nose into shit, is a stupid saying anyway.