2

As I am pushed away by the mighty force of the sheer volume of sound that attacks from the wall in front of me, I almost drop the machine I am holding so delicately in my hands, but manage to clutch it with my wits just before, pulling it close to my chest for safety.

The noise, which struck with an initial tsunami, wanes some, before redoubling its strengths with another powerful blow, shaking the whole room with its punch. I am left dazed for a little while from the initial impact, that it takes me a while to realise what is happening, but I notice that the sounds protruding from the wall are coming with a constant pattern, a constant pace: a rhythm. I manage to recover some of my sense, the ceaseless pulses massaging my brain with relentless magnitude, and I see that the whole room is vibrating under the oppression of the cacophony, most notably my desk, with so much fervour that it’s causing the myriad of components on its surface to skip around from place to place, leaping away from the centre and closer to the edge. This immediately jolts me from my stupor, as I rush to catch these components before they come to a tumbling demise, and manage to nestle all of those in most urgent need in my arms alongside the machine to protect them from danger. There are still more components on my desk, however, and with those at the edges cleared, those remaining are beginning to take their place, so I jump from my chair and in almost a single, adroit motion, deposit the components on my bed, which, though not unaffected by the sound, is farther from the wall than the desk, and is thus shaking much less aggressively, allowing its residents to take comfortable refuge on its covers. Without hesitation, I leap back to the desk to gather the remaining few pieces, claiming all of them before any can fall, and treat them with the same care. Panicked at the sudden motion applied to my whole bedroom, my eyes dart to the stacks of boxes along the affected wall to see if they are at risk of falling over, but to my relief, they are firmly, almost fleshly tucked right under the ceiling, and are moving very little between themselves, if at all noticing the impact of the sound. 

Only once I confirm that all is safe, all is secure from the sudden onslaught of noise emanating from the facing wall, can I allow myself to consult my senses, and assess the situation more clearly. Through the barrage of endless bolts and bellowing vibrations, I find an underlying stream to which my ears can cling as a foundation, and I find, listening more astutely, that the tumultuous noise terrorising me and my bedroom is, in fact, music.

Not music to my ears, mind you, as they are still suffering, almost bleeding from the pressure applied onto them by the compressed airwaves, but nonetheless a collection of sounds that have become culturally accepted as belonging in the same domain as Beethoven and Mozart. I recognise some audible scratches in the vague shape of vocals, a battalion of percussions – the assailants – and the mutilations of some-or-other string-based artillery. Clearly, I immediately assert, I must have a new neighbour, and one who has little appreciation for both social and auditory proprieties. Watching an entire wall of my beloved apartment rattle with fear-like submission, I take no time accepting that another second of such baseless assault must be stopped. I depart from the disturbed asylum of my bedroom and traipse still-dizzily into my hallway, where only a moment’s hesitation helps me decide that a change of clothing will be avoided; the gentilities of implicit respect comported by presentable comportment will need to be made up for by proper reasoning, and my current attire of a dirty t-shirt – reserved for comfortable work – stained tracksuit bottoms – similarly reserved – and well-worn socks, slipped into cheap rubber slippers, will have to do. I walk briskly out of my hallway and into the corridor, no doubt enjoying the waning effect the otic carnage is exacting on my ears as I distance myself from it.

I stride out into the corridor, and without hesitation, journey to the apartment door next to my own – that marked with number 808. My muscles involuntarily tense from discomfort as I near the ruckus once again, but I brave my nature assertively, knowing that a short confrontation, no matter how momentarily vexing, will ultimately outweigh all turmoil that inaction would allow in its place. When I reach the door, I rap on it three times, and wait.

About ten seconds pass without the slightest indication of a reaction on the other side of the door. I am piqued, but only slightly: it is after all only natural that through a torrent of torturous hymns my own meagre knocks would be lost. I repeat the action, more firmly this time, with greater intent and as much force as I can place behind my curled fist. Contented that my repetition corrected for enough power to find a narrow passage through the miasmic sound, I wait again, placing my hands over my ears to hopefully quell the pain.

When ten more seconds pass this time with no further sign of my neighbour, however, I am no longer so patient. I lift my hand, and begin thrashing at the door without compromise – then I lift the other for good measure, to join in the siege on the timid wooden barricade. I manage to wax enough in my eagerness that by the time the door suddenly does open, and my neighbour appears behind it, it takes my incomparable reaction time to stop my clenched hand from hurling directly into my visitee.

In an instantaneous spasm that I am sure my inferior company cannot notice, I realign myself with a most proprietary posture: hands pleasantly behind my back, feet close together, a regal smile on my lips. I then take a swift opportunity to assess my neighbour’s appearance, so I know who it is that I am dealing with.

Behind the door, whose opening unleashed a new pandaemonium of sounds which the wooden block managed to bravely dampen, stands a man with a shaved head. He is wearing a white t-shirt, stained all over with enough colours to make a soda-themed tie-dye top, khaki brown cargo shorts that have met similar attention from spilled beverages, and a few crumbs of food too, and as to what sartorial mishappenings meet my neighbour below that point, I cannot comment, because I do not brave to look. I return my brisk, unnoticeable glance to meet my neighbour’s eyes, catching along the way the sleeve of patchwork tattoos that cover his left arm, which had eluded me on investigation of his vestments at first, and when I inspect his face, I see that his expression is dull, indifferent, empty, as must be his skull, since one must have lost their mind to play any noise at this volume, and then be indifferent to its effects.

Nonetheless, I give my neighbour a polite, subtle nod.

‘Hello, I–’

‘What?’

I notice now that I cannot even hear him speak, and can only infer what he says from the movements of his lips.

‘Hello,’ I try again, louder this time, ‘my–’

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

My increased volume does not appear to help.

‘Hello,’ I try, louder still, pushing the limits of what my diaphragm is capable of, ‘I–’

‘Just a second,’ says my neighbour, cutting me off for the final time, and disappearing deeper inside his apartment. I see him leaving to the left, in the direction of my own flat, and after a couple seconds, like being dropped into a field of feathers after being suspended by razor wires, I nearly succumb to the pleasantness that overwhelms me. The noise stops completely, putting silence in its wake: sweet, succulent silence.

‘Sorry about that,’ I hear from within the apartment. Shortly after, my neighbour reappears at the door. ‘Couldn’t hear you through the music.’

He gives me a polite smile, and I give one back, though mine is redoubled by the pleasure I am failing to conceal at having regained the faculties of my hearing.

‘I know, I–’ I start, prepared to reaffirm that he had himself brought up precisely what I had come to speak about, but remember what it was that I learned from my coworker Brandon: your company does not need to agree with what you say, they just need to agree with who you are. I realise that it would be improper for my first dialogue with my new neighbour to be one based on a complaint, so although I do not abandon my intention of broaching the subject, I must first adopt a more patient, subtle approach. Only once we overcome the trivialities of social encounter, might I enjoy the privilege of a modicum of honesty.

‘Hello,’ I start for the fourth time. This time, however, I am not in the slightest impeded, and my company nods in reciprocation. ‘My name is Amon. I’m your next door neighbour. Nice to meet you.’

I produce my hand for my visitee to shake. He however does not respond, either not noticing it at all, or choosing to disregard it.

‘Oh, shit,’ he says, his face widening in some embarrassment. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit out of it at the moment. Come on in–’ and he steps away from the door, opening it wide for me to go inside.

I drop my hand back to my side.

‘Ah, yes,’ I agree, a little surprised, but not unwelcoming to the development: objectively, it is an obstacle to my return to work, but Brandon would be welcoming, and I would not object to the results he gets with his level of incompetence for his craft.

After opening the door for me, my neighbour quickly turns away from the entrance, walking back into his apartment.

‘Do you want a beer or something?’ he asks me indirectly, without looking.

‘Uh, no thank you,’ I respond, taking my first step into the apartment. As I place my foot down unsuspectingly, the sound of a crunch grabs my attention. When I look down, I see that I have stepped on an empty packet of crisps – one of a myriad, carpeting every inch of floorspace available to the immediate entrance, and it elicits a visceral distaste for the scene at once, beckoning for me to leave right there and then. One of the packets gets caught when I turn to close the door, and I have to kick it out of the way before shutting the door completely. 

‘Well, I’m having one anyway,’ I hear my neighbour’s voice coming from the room directly ahead of the entrance, which in my own apartment would be that of the sitting room – and also kitchen, of course. After a few careful steps through the floor debris, a better look into the room assures me that that is also the case for my neighbour’s apartment.

As I approach the open door to the sitting room, my neighbour’s head pops out suddenly from the side, catching me by surprise, followed by his body.

‘Sorry, I– I’m Jake, by the way,’ he says. In his hand he’s holding a closed bottle of beer, but no opener.

‘Nice to meet you, Jake,’ I answer politely. It is at this point that I realise the niceties are already becoming exhausting, but I persevere.

A moment of awkward silence passes between us, then Jake decides to address the aperture of his bottle of beer. I watch him lift it up, then place the edge of the cap sideways on the rim of the doorframe leading to the sitting room. He lifts his arm, then hits it, punching the bottle away but failing to take off the cap, leaving a visible scratch on the doorframe – one entirely on its own, indicating that this is not only a brilliantly creative, but also a novel approach. Indifferent to his first failure, Jake places the bottle back in the same area, and tries again. He fails again. This time, he allows for a self-critical smirk, before trying the same approach once more. He leaves four more scratches in the white paint on the wood before walking back into the kitchen and retrieving a bottle opener.

‘So,’ he starts nonchalantly when he returns, ‘–oh, come in here,’ and he introduces me into the sitting room. The floor there is cleaner at least, but not by much. I am instead more amazed that the room resembles a mirror reflection of my own, to the best of how I can remember it.

Taking a look around the space, I feel the distant memories of my first time investigating my own apartment’s rooms resurfacing, in a surreal, almost disturbing way, where those images which should be so familiar are distorted by the inverted arrangement of all the geometry before me. The tragic window unto the adjacent building’s side we both share, and even perhaps our particular choices of floor carpeting – Jake choosing to cover his floor helplessly with old packages from junk foods and reheatable microwave dinners, and I on the other hand treating every available space I have as a potential place to archive old devices and parts which I might one day need or want to revisit – even perhaps that is similar between us, however almost everything else about the chamber feels vividly distinct from my own image of the corresponding space back in my own apartment. 

In the left corner, there are two couches, appearing well-used and well-tormented by a variety of intruders, as well as a blue bean-bag placed between them: on my part, I cannot remember if my sitting room even has any furnishings, though it certainly might have come with some. In the far-right corner, there is an old CRT television, which I am certain has no counterpart in my own place, and for a moment I am completely intrigued as to what it is even doing there, how it had gotten there, why it had been preferred to a more modern device, and so on, before instantaneously losing all interest in the television once the moment has passed, and forget to pay it any heed afterwards. Finally, the corner of the room that is tiled – but no less covered in food packaging, though a vague path exists between the packets of crisps to allow for some ambulation – and is evidently purposed to be the kitchen, contains one more table than my own tiled kitchen area can claim for itself, with enough chairs to seat the four people the table appears designed to accommodate, though supporting absolutely no hospitable niceties on its surface at all, as the table is completely bland. The rest of the kitchen is not much differently embellished, though it must be attested that a presumably functioning microwave and kettle exist in the corner of the L-shaped countertop that reaches from the fridge up to the far wall, which I myself would never waste time in procuring or maintaining, and the fridge, the final item of interest in the room, is even plugged in to the wall, singing a gentle hum which can only be appreciated due to the newborn silence, much more of a song than my own disabled appliance rings out, and it must be assumed too that behind its metal white door there are at least some comestibles to appease a desperate palate, though, judging by my host’s appearance, I have little faith in what those particular articles might be.

I attempt to find a place somewhere by the table, just next to where the tiles end, while my neighbour walks into the kitchen and stands next to the counter.

‘So,’ starts Jake again, but that’s as far as he gets, awkwardly stumbling and realising he doesn’t know what to say next. ‘Neighbours.’

‘That’s right,’ I affirm, myself estranged in these unfamiliar waters.

Jake searches the silence for a few more seconds, looking for something to say.

‘What apartment are you in?’ 

‘807.’

His eyes widen a little in surprise.

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘that’s only next door.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I answer. It takes me a moment, but I soon realise this as an opportunity to return to my point of interest. ‘In fact…’

‘They’re nice, these apartments,’ interrupts my host.

Taming my immediate hostility at being interrupted, I agree.

‘Yes, they are.’

‘And not expensive either.’

I open my mouth for a second to produce another banal agreement, but, being subdued for longer than is customary, my initiative finally gets the best of me.

‘Look,’ I say resolutely, and Jake nods in comfortable attention, ‘I like to work from home sometimes, when I’m working on an important project or I’m trying something new, I like to workshop it in my apartment sometimes. Normally I do that after work, in the evenings – evenings like this one, and, I was just working there nicely, and, when your music starts playing–’ an unsuppressable smile spreads on Jake’s lips ‘–it’s a bit hard to focus on the work.’

My host takes a moment to break eye contact and digest the information I have said. Not long after, he finds my eyes once again, his smile gone, a look of sly uncertainty taking its place.

‘You don’t like the music?’ he asks simply.

That sends me into a brief panic.

‘No no no!’ I reassure, ‘that’s not what I mean. I just – it’s not the music itself, really. It’s more that, when it’s so loud, it can be a bit hard to focus.’

My host nods slowly in understanding.

‘So the music’s fine then?’

I open my mouth, but struggle to give an answer.

‘It’s just that it’s a bit too loud?’

Saved from an uncomfortable answer, I smile broadly.

‘Yes, precisely,’ I say, ‘I was wondering if you could possibly turn it down somewhat. Just to make it easier to focus in my own apartment.’

‘I see.’

A pensive, uncomfortable silence follows. In an attempt to relieve the tension that I myself caused, I hurry to continue the conversation.

‘Or, if you could even listen to your music on headphones, perhaps,’ I suggest.

Jake’s eyes widen sharply, and his whole posture tightens.

‘Oh,’ he says, a note of pique in his voice, ‘you’d like me to listen to it on headphones, would you?’

I immediately notice that my comment did not take the conversation down my desired route.

‘No, I don’t mean – I’m not saying that you should do that, I just–’

‘You’d just like me to not play my music at all, is that it?’ he parries, his annoyance, though not quite becoming anger, definitely growing.

‘I’m not saying that, no–’ I fumble. My thoughts begin to race as the conversation quickly slips out of my grasp. For an instant, I remember Brandon, and wonder what it is he would do in this situation.

I panic for a few seconds, my eyes losing focus of my company and struggling to find a single cohesive thing to latch on to. All the while, I maintain my outward composure, imparting my face with a dumb, blank expression, pleading desperately to be removed from the scene and placed back in my apartment, at my desk, working on my project. Finally, I manage to form a thought, and desperately spurt it out before the torrents of confusion sweep it away.

‘It’s just, I would like it if you turned your music off.’

Cursing myself, I realise immediately that that was not what I had intended to say, though it must be admitted that it was a clear representation of my feelings. I had hoped that by asking for a reduction in volume, though not ideal, I could find a more workable environment, and then over time negotiate silence with my neighbour. Demanding it immediately, however, was doomed to fail, and I cursed myself again for allowing my feelings to take hold of me so paralysingly.

To my surprise, Jake’s annoyance lessens somewhat, resting at a sort of perplexed inquiry.

‘But it’s the weekend.’

‘It’s Friday,’ I correct him.

His annoyance returns.

‘Well it’s not a school night,’ he amends. ‘Are you seriously working right now?’

My plain expression communicates all there is to say.

‘Damn,’ he says, taking a sip from his beer. As he parts the bottle from his lips, his eyes come down to look at it, and he holds it up towards me. ‘Are you sure you don’t want one of these? I think you could use one.’

I provide a suppressed nod in response. Jake’s hands fall back to his sides, and he leans on the countertop in resignation.

‘Well, I suppose that there is some work I could do myself this evening. I was really planning on getting to it on Monday, but I suppose it couldn’t hurt to get a head start.’

The tension in his body disappears, and he appears more relaxed. A pleasant smile of agreement appears on his lips, and the thrill of a pleasant resolution fills me with so much joy that I reciprocate tenfold.

Some silence passes, the smiles fade, and Jake takes another sip of his beverage. I start wondering about the most painless way to remove myself from the filthy apartment and get back to my project.

‘Where do you work anyway?’ asks my host, catching me by surprise.

‘Uhm, Emplecix,’ I answer.

‘Haven’t heard of it,’ says Jake honestly. ‘What is it?’

‘We make a variety of things,’ I explain. ‘I work in product design.’

‘Ah,’ he understands, ‘so you like, make the blueprints and all that?’

The simplicity of his ignorance vexes me somewhat, but I decide to not tarnish the moment with any more ill feelings.

‘Well, a little bit, I suppose. Mostly I create the proofs of concept, prototypes, that kind of thing,’ I clarify.

‘So you’re like an inventor, then? Like an entrepreneur?’

Not imagining any end to the conversation that will allow me to free myself from the social engagement, I choose not to fight for truth any longer.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say.

Pleased with the response, Jake continues.

‘So what do you make, then? Phones? Cars?’ he asks.

I consider the question for a moment in my mind.

‘Depends,’ I finally determine, ‘I like to invent new technologies. Products you might have never seen before on the market, or you likely wouldn’t think even exist.’

My company’s eyes widen in intrigue.

‘Sounds important,’ he comments through another sip.

‘I’d like to think so,’ I agree, sensing the pricklings of pride in my chest.

Jake’s hands fall calmly back to his sides, and he leans indifferently on the kitchen countertop. Another awkward silence embraces us. Enough of it passes for me to conclude what it is that I wish to say to remove myself from the situation, but my preparation turns out to be unnecessary. My host is the one to commence the departure.

‘Well,’ he says with finality, ‘I wouldn’t want to keep you from your important work.’

He straightens his relaxed posture away from the countertop, and begins slowly ambling towards the sitting room door. I tacitly nod in acknowledgment, and place myself shortly behind him. Without any rush, he paces the final few metres to the entrance door, pulling it open and stepping aside, allowing me a means of exit. I follow with another nod, one of polite gratitude, and surpass him in the apartment, exiting the door and ending up in the corridor. Once comfortably out, I turn around to give my host a final goodbye.

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘–for having me, and for understanding.’

Jake cannot help a subtle, almost shy smile in response.

‘Of course,’ he says warmly.

As I place one foot in the direction of my apartment, I turn my head momentarily to look at my neighbour before he closes the door.

‘Goodnight,’ I say.

‘Goodnight,’ he answers, and that is the last I see of him, as his apartment door closes completely and liberates me at last from the torturous engagement.

I traipse happily over back to my apartment, prancing through the front door and pirouetting through my hallway, concluding my final spin by landing in my desk chair, and laying back to bask in the beneficent silence. My head leaned back, I glance to look at my bed, covered almost entirely by electrical parts, all but one of which are trumped in significance by what they each culminate towards: my machine. It lays in their midst, coincidentally central to the assemblage: fifteen by fifteen centimetres square in its base, ten high, with three wires exuding from its rear, with another soon around them, thicker, intended for providing power to the apparatus; and on the front of the machine, three dials, the middle one the largest and most important, with the lateral ones remaining mostly fixed, intended for finer manipulation. It is utterly dominant in its place, perhaps my greatest creation yet, and though it is not quite finished, not much remains to complete it. Those parts around it are mostly noise; the final few minutiae requiring attention lay primarily in the device’s attunement, the specification of its parameters. The memory of attending to those very parameters floats gently into my consciousness, pillowed by the silence, and I am quickly vexed by my prior failure to materialise a solution which will allow me to finally set the machine’s circuits in motion.

I lift the device up from the bed, rolling it back with me to my desk. Holding it in my hands, with all its wires rolled up at the top in a neat bundle, my eyes are drawn to the pads placed at the end of the three thin wires, and just as I see them, I realise what it is I can do to help tune the machine. My realisation fills me with so much excitement that I feel its warmth expanding through my body, widening my eyes, parting my lips–

‘I’ve got it!’ it makes me say, and I quickly cover my mouth with one hand, masking the unbecoming exclamation. Nonetheless, I feel relieved, a new hope painting a path forward through a blockade I had feared in the near future of my project.

Relaxed, I move to place the device back on my desk. At the very same instant that the black box touches the polished wood, a rupture of explosive noise attacks me through the same wall that had borne all prior acoustic assault. 

It is different from the music before: a single riff of an electric guitar, unfollowed and unaccompanied by any other instruments that might constitute a song – even a vulgar one. The noise shocks me, no doubt, but I take it well, hardened both from the earlier batterings of sound as well as the immediate, unhesitating rage which fills and tightens every fibre of every muscle in my body to make me of cold, murderous stone.

I do not feel myself rise from my chair. I do not feel myself wander into the hallway, possessed by ire, and up to the door. I do not feel the door handle of my apartment entrance as it yields to my pressure, and releases me from my abode.

But I do, as I walk into the corridor and look down its length, seeing the thin, protruding sliver of brown that is my neighbour’s door; I do have a single faltering moment in all my torment to allow a lone thought to slip in. Had the thought been anything else than entirely brilliant, it would have likely not stopped me in my tracks, and I would have continued to my neighbour’s apartment; but the thought was instead just that. It is so genius, in fact, that the joy it brings me is enough to subdue the terrorous rupture which the electric guitar brings. 

I walk back through my apartment door, unfazed. I amble calmly back to my room, seat myself at my desk. I observe my remarkable device, and smile.

‘Very well,’ I say to myself, as well as to the beautiful black box. ‘How convenient.’

And I return immediately back to work.

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