Konstantine, the boy next door, appears to have broken up with his boyfriend of two torrid months, Titanic Penis, for TP has not been around much this week and Konstantine is repeatedly playing a Beyonce song, Why Don’t You Love Me. I have also noticed that during this period of heartbreak, my neighbor has taken down the wind chimes that wreaked havoc with a headache I had a few weeks ago, but I quickly grew used to them and they mixed fine with all the other ambient noise forever playing on my internal iPod.
This morning, when I left on a bagel run, Konstantine was playing that Beyonce song, and when I returned with one very satisfying cinnamon raisin bagel, he was playing it again. Next, I went out to have my hair colored and cut. After my hair appointment, when I entered my building, he was playing it so loud, the letter carrier; a very pleasant woman delivering my mail was compelled to comment:
Letter Carrier: You have a Beyonce fan here.
Me: That’s my next-door neighbor. He broke up with someone and has been playing that song non-stop.
Letter Carrier: Oh. That’s not good. I prefer Single Ladies.
Me: I prefer the sounds of silence. The literal sounds of silence.
Letter Carrier: I know what you meant.
Me (hopeful): Hey! Are you now my regular letter carrier?
Letter Carrier: No, I’m filling in.
I suffer a downbeat. She hands me my mail. Konstantine starts that song again.
Letter Carrier: You have yourself a great day. (pause) Maybe you should go out some more. The weather’s beautiful.
I resist the urge to ask who I can contact to make her my regular letter carrier. Back to smashed mail come Monday …
My grieving neighbor has played this song so many times I half-wonder if he has overdosed, but then I see him stick his head out the window, so the only overdosing going on around here is me having to hear that one song over and over and over again. Realizing that I’m back in my garret, Konstantine lowers the volume from a level ten to the current five. My books and candles stop vibrating, but right now, he’s still playing that same song. Milton calls and I tell him about this situation. He surmises, “Prison time.” I ask my expert consultant on all things gay male if Beyonce is the Judy for young gay guys. Milton growls, “They don’t have a Judy.” I’d give a kidney to hear The Man That Got Away right now. I have the Judy at Carnegie Hall double LP, but I gave away my turntable to a friend in need (of a turntable) a few years ago. Hmm.
I have a light bulb. Actually, I have 51 years worth of ecospiral light bulbs (see Lame Adventure 36: The Calculations of Light). I Google Judy and The Man That Got Away pops up in its entirety! I hook my MacBook to my speakers and play it.
Konstantine shuts off Beyonce! I’m not saying that Judy Garland emoting her guts out at Carnegie Hall back in 1961 is the cure to my neighbor’s blues, but she silences Sasha Fierce, and that’s a great thing on this side of the shared wall. Maybe if I play The Trolley Song next he’ll make an even quicker recovery from his funk.