Tone Deaf

My eyes snap open, taking their time in focusing on the wall I’m facing and the floral wallpaper my landlord won’t let me change. Before the hideous off-white carnations are less blurry, I can hear him next door, my reason for waking a full hour before my alarm, bellowing along to one of the ten songs he knows; this morning, it’s Walking In Memphis, the original, not the cover by Cher. He knows the lyrics to this one at least - yesterday had been Barracuda and it was clearly not a song frequently in his repertoire.

Covering my head with the pillow doesn’t help. The thin walls only seem to aid his off-key warbling, and I know I’m not getting back to sleep anytime soon. It’s been the same story since he moved in two months ago, and I only know he’s a he because of his awful singing. I’ve never actually laid eyes on the man himself as he seems to work strange hours. Sometimes he’ll be vocalizing at eight am, sometimes it’s at nine at night. At the very least, he seems to be aware of the building’s noise code, so as much as I want to complain, it would fall on deaf ears.

Pardon the pun.

He never stops at the one song either, so I begrudgingly drag myself out from between my comfortably warm sheets, heading straight for the bathroom. His voice is not as loud there, but I don’t exactly intend on spending my whole life in what is essentially a closet with a sink, and when I finish up and head for the kitchen, the song is coming to an end.

The next one begins too quickly, and he’s switching up tempo. I sigh, recognizing this one as an AC/DC number but I’m not all that familiar with their discography. My neighbor is though, and he’s throwing all he’s got into it. If I knew what he looks like, I could easily imagine him rocking out with an air guitar, but all I can conjure is a faceless dude I’d quite happily throttle for disturbing my lie in on my precious day off.

There’s no point in putting the radio on, and my television would only equal his noise, probably to the point that Mr. Lenor in the apartment on the other side would come and complain, and I’m not in the mood to deal with him today. My only hope is my headphones, which I clearly remember leaving in my locker at work, so instead, I put the TV on Netflix and put the subtitles on, hoping I can ignore growing irritation at the unrequested concert I’m receiving.

By lunchtime, and after most of the eighties greatest rock hits, I am absolutely done. Noise code or not, I need him to stop before I go insane. Throwing on some sweats and a hoodie, I slip out of my apartment and down the hall to his door. My first knock is timid, and I know he can’t hear me over Meatloaf’s Bat Outta Hell, so I try again, a little harder this time. The music stops abruptly, and the silence is enough for me to hear my own heart racing nervously.

I really hate confrontation. I’ve never been any good at it either, and as I wait, listening intently for his footsteps towards the door, I suddenly realize I’ve no idea what I’m going to say to him. My mouth is dry, my irritation is disappearing in the wake of my anxiety over dealing with a stranger, and when I don’t hear him coming to the door, I decide that maybe he’ll take the hint.

I’m back behind my own door before I can even see if he answered. A few minutes later, I hear his door shut against the thin walls, so I peek through the keyhole, spying a leather jacket as he swaggers past my door. Blessed peace follows him, and I’m able to enjoy the rest of my Netflix binge without feeling like I want to strangle anyone. I never hear him come back, which isn’t unusual - strange hours, like I said.

The next day, I’ve got a full shift, and by dark, I’m traipsing up the seven flights of stairs to my apartment, wondering if they’ll ever fix the elevator. I pass Mr. Lenor’s door, drawing closer to my home, and I can hear it before I’ve got the key in the lock. I had almost forgotten my karaoking next door neighbor but sure enough, I can clearly hear Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing, accompanied by that deep throaty yell I’m slowly getting used to.

Sighing heavily, I push my way into my tiny residence, dumping my bag onto the table by the door that’s supposed to be for mail but everything’s online these days so it’s usually empty. I can hear him attempting the high notes when I stomp into the kitchen, and I can’t help but wince at how badly he’s murdering the song.

It’s been a long day, made longer by his apparent intention to pull out every road trip rock classic, and my previous irritation is quick to raise its head. This time when I go for his door, I’m so angry that I pound on it, and when the music stops, I’m seething. His footsteps are loud as they approach, and I’m practically foaming at the mouth when he opens the door, only for my ire to be swept away when I finally get a look at him.

He’s tall, taller than me at any rate. Chiseled cheekbones lead to an even sharper jawline, and though I can’t tell what color his eyes are in the dim hallway light, I can’t miss how handsome his features are. There’s no leather jacket in sight this time, just a tight-fitting shirt that accentuates his obviously well-cared-for physique, and that’s about the point that I realize I’m staring.

“Can I help you?” he asks, no malice in his voice at being interrupted, more curiosity - he leans against the doorframe and grins at me.

It’s the confrontation I always hate, made worse by the fact that he’s attractive. I smile meekly, forgetting how mad I was, and it’s a fight to control my voice. “Hi,” I squeak, feeling heat in my face. “I live next door and your singing was a little loud -”

His face morphs, and it’s obvious he’s guessed why I’m there, so I stop talking. He looks… mortified? “I’m so sorry!” he rushes out, pushing up off of the doorframe and straightening his posture. “You could hear me?”

I force myself to nod. “A little, uh,” a nervous giggle disrupts my speech, “the walls are pretty thin.” He looks like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him, and I can’t help but feel a little bit of satisfaction that he had no idea, even if the whole situation is funnier to me now than it was ten seconds ago. “I know it’s not late or anything, it’s just that I can hear pretty much, um, everything?”

His ears turn red before anything else does, and it’s almost adorable. I’m beginning to feel bad for him. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats, covering his face with his hand. “I didn’t mean to inflict that on anyone.”

“It’s okay, really,” I joke, even though it’s not, but he’s embarrassed and I hate making people uncomfortable. “Maybe just keep it to when I’m at work? I usually am, just -”

He holds up both hands in surrender, and I’m getting the feeling he doesn’t like confrontation either.  “No, no, I’m cool with that.”

Then we’re both standing there, staring at each other. I don’t know what to do or say, and neither does he by the looks of it. I smile, jerking my head back toward my door. “I should -”

“I’m Ryan,” he blurts out, holding out a hand stiffly with an awkward smile on his face. “I haven’t really met anyone in the building.”

I eye his hand like it might bite before hesitantly taking it and when we shake, I can’t help but return his smile. “Jesse,” I reply. “It’s nice to meet you.”

----------

My eyes snap open, taking their time in focusing on the wall I’m facing, and I don’t miss the hideous carnations. This wallpaper is one I chose, and it’s a delightfully deep shade of lilac without the floral pattern. It’s only the third time I’ve woken up in this bed, but I’m getting used to it, even if I never know whether it’ll be my alarm rousing me or the sound of Ryan’s off-key singing.

He still loves the old rock tunes, though I’ve introduced a few more modern songs into his collection. This morning, it’s Smoke On The Water, accompanied by the smell of bacon and eggs, wafting up the stairs of our cute little detached house. Apartment life had only ever been a step to something better, I had just never realized that step wouldn’t be taken alone. Now, when I hear him caterwauling, it makes me smile.

I don’t move right away, relishing the comfort of our bed. When the door opens, I finally push myself up, smiling brightly as Ryan enters with a tray balanced on one hand.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, grinning mischievously.

“I’m just glad you know the lyrics to that one.”

He places the tray on the bed before taking a seat. “Only some of them.”

“Still, your crappy singing is really the reason for all of this,” I reply, reaching out to snatch up a piece of crispy bacon. “So I can’t really be mad.”

The same smile he’d given me that first evening lights up his face as I munch on the bacon he’d cooked for me. I’m more in love with his tone deaf behind than ever.