The Music Of The Night

 A few days back, I celebrated the occasion of the worst possible neighbor. Coincidentally, that neighbor was me. And coincidentally, it was on the occasion of Bruce Springsteen's birthday. 

My erstwhile companion at this time was my very good friend and native of New Jersey, with whom I shared a number of apartments. This particular version of accommodations was a spacious two bedroom, far more luxurious and expansive than the ones we had occupied previously. This one had a trash compactor, which we used from time to time to stress test various forms of packaging and the machine itself. It was not this behavior that made us the worst neighbors in the world, though it was certainly indicative of the kind of tenants we were. 

As I mentioned previously, my friend and I had gone through many apartments together. By "gone through," I mean that when we sat down to sign our lease and were told that our damage deposit would be four hundred dollars, we smiled inwardly knowing with grim certainty that we were more than capable of doing four hundred dollars worth of damage. We were the guys with a full-sized Battlezone arcade game in their living room. We were the guys who had pop bottle rocket battles in our apartment. And we were the ones who only needed the smallest excuse to have a party on any given night.

On the night in question, we did not have a small excuse. It was Bruce Springsteen's birthday. We were honor bound to celebrate. When we drove out to the liquor store, some quick hungry drunk boy math let us know that buying a case of beer was actually more expensive than purchasing a quarter keg. Especially since we had our own tap and a tub for the ice, and the deposit on the keg would be politely voided by my cousin who worked at the liquor store. 

Upon our return home we set up the beer station, as we always did, on the front porch. This meant that the melting ice would not drip onto our floors or carpet. Instead, it would rain down on the front porch of the apartment located directly underneath ours. This also meant that each trip for a refill necessitated a walk across the apartment, opening of the front door, pumping of the tap, then padding back across the hall to the living room having closed the door behind ourselves. True, it was just the two of us, but we were capable of making many many trips to that keg. 

Which would not have been our worst offense. That came about as a function of all those trips. Each beer swilled by us necessitated a rise in the volume of the music: All Bruce. Deep cuts. Album tracks. Singles. Personal favorites. 

It was well after midnight when we finally reached what was a completely unnecessary crescendo. When we played "Born To Run," we "sang" along in the manner to which we had become accustomed at arena shows featuring the Boss and the E Street Band. Not that we weren't singing along before this, but this was the encore, the mostly vowels version of the National Anthem of Springsteen fans. Not feeling this was enough enthusiasm, we began to pound on the floor in time with the music. More or less. 

This floor was the ceiling of the apartment directly below us. Upon whose porch we had been raining keg runoff for hours at this point. And after we wound up our featured number, the phone rang. How we heard it is anyone's guess, and why we expected anyone else but our downstairs neighbor is a question best answered by those who have lived through a night like this. On either side. 

She was in tears. She pleaded with us to let her and her little girl get some sleep. It was a school night, after all. 

I would like to tell you that we felt shame at this moment. That we apologized. We didn't. We did turn down the stereo. We did take it as a sign that Bruce Day (Observed) was winding down. We did scoff at this philistine who did not appreciate the import of the occasion. Eventually we wandered off to our bedrooms to sleep it off. And I would like to say that the next day the shame actually kicked in and we sent a nice note and a box of chocolates to our downstairs neighbor.

We did not. 

We were horrible, horrible people. 

Which is why, when neighbors turn up their music or drive their thumping cars by late at night. I roll over and remember Bruce Springsteen's birthday. Happy Birthday, Boss.