Dear Upstairs Neighbors,
I know that you, up there, can’t hear me, down here. You, on the third floor of a three story apartment building, know little of the noises and vibrations that those below experience on a regular basis. I often find myself wondering if you rearrange your furniture on a daily basis or if you adopted a herd of baby elephants. Either are plausible.
You see, I dealt with the loud slamming of the apartment building door below my bedroom. It took me six months, but I managed to work up the courage to send an email to property management. It was a big day for me, and no one in this building had the common courtesy to say thank you or slip a bar of dark chocolate under the door with a sticky note attached to it that said “You saved my life.”
Now, look, I said I was sorry the day after when you had that party when your friends from Montreal visited, who you said you hadn’t seen in years, and I walked up to your apartment in my sweatpants and ratty t-shirt and said, “It’s too loud” and then proceeded to exclusively use my hands to answer all of your questions. As I laid in bed, heart racing and unable to fall back asleep, I worried I gave your friends from Montreal a bad impression of the people of Portland.
I felt even worse when I was awoken in the middle of the night by loud music and hard-bottomed shoes a couple of weeks later. Remember when I walked upstairs, knocked on your door four times, and was greeted by you both wearing your wedding attire? “We meant to invite you,” you said. “Well, you’re welcome to come in and have a drink,” you said. I politely declined for two reasons: 1. I am wearing sweatpants and an oversized white t-shirt I bought for my cousin’s wedding and refuse to wear anywhere other than bed and 2. I don’t drink. As I sat awake in bed for the second time that month, I appreciated the drink offer and felt like I had ruined your wedding after-party.
And look, I get it, couples have sex right? That’s pretty normal human couple behavior. But when you wake up at 2 P.M. in the afternoon and proceed to moan, groan, and keep your bed close enough to the wall so that with every thrust I feel the wall shake while I am trying to write in the office (a.k.a. my bedroom closet), my patience wears thin.
I know what you’re thinking. I can tell by the sounds of your footsteps. “Brett, you work at home all day. You need to get out and experience the world. Get some perspective on what matters.” Well, let me tell you, you are 100% right.
All I ask, no, all I plea is that you treat your home like a library, adopt the same sleep schedule as me, and, for the love of god, move your bed six inches away from the wall.
Your Downstairs Neighbor
P.S. If you know anyone looking to sell their house, I’m in the market.