Working While High and Rocking
When we first moved in, it took awhile for me to get used to the lack of jackhammers, screaming women, and street musicians. This neighborhood is the quietest I've ever lived in, and I've come to appreciate the peace and ease inflated rent affords. The atmosphere is occasionally disrupted, sure, but most of the time it’s welcomed. You get trumpets, laughter, kids yelling.
Maybe it was the second or third night, around two or three in the morning, we heard a car roll up. Actually, we heard the car rolling up from the corner. Prince, circa *Purple Rain.* "Darling Nikki," it was. The rocksteady beat and preening, wiry synthesizer riffs lingered out in the street for a full two minutes. We heard our landlord, who lives RIGHT THE FUCK NEXT DOOR, stomp down the steps and throw the front door open. The music didn't go anywhere.
After awhile it did, though, and we heard the landlord's door close, and his feet mounting the staircase.
waswas This kind of thing happened five or six more times. Always in the earlier hours of morning, always the booming stereo (and the guy's got a tricked out system), always with something groove heavy. It was always music that I liked, so the volume and obnoxious spirit working the dial never bothered me so much. I'm all for playing Big Black at three a.m. and telling the neighbors they can all get fucked.
But the then, the other night, I was finishing up with a movie and stepping out for a cigarette. I hadn't checked any clocks, but it was well after the bars had closed. To my left, came a rumble.
The car pulled up. Looked like a late-model Grand Prix. The door opened and a man got out. A huge man. Taller than me. Must've had at least a hundred and fifty pounds on me. He had a bald head, and he wore a black apron. He was carrying a rolled up newspaper. I said hello to him, and he only nodded in return, leaving a sweet, weedy wake behind him. Somehow, the fact that he was earning a living changed something. I wanted him to play his music louder. He didn't even bother closing the door.
He climbed the steps to our building and stopped in front of the landlord's door. He brought his heavy arm over his head, and whipped the newspaper down onto the doormat at his feet.
With grace, confidence, and what must have been a sweet buzz-on, he strode past me and sat back down into his car. The chassis sunk down, closer to the road. He drove away, and after a minute or so, there was only silence.
And it gave me a moment to reflect on just how badass the baseline to Sade's Paradise is.