Lush Gutters

Before I moved into my current abode I lived in a detached house in deep southern Berlin with four others, all students, all in their mid-twenties.

I know what noise is.

Now, the folks with whom I used to share a home were, and remain, lovely people. But the art of quietly closing a door, a mystical and endangered skill known only to a dedicated and blessed few, was one they could never quite master. Nor was that of talking more softly when moving from living room to bedrooms at gone midnight. At times I wanted to gag them with their own limbs.

After some time I noticed a permanent unease that clouded my experiences under that roof. These otherwise sweet and charitable people had unknowingly wrought upon my sensitive bonce an anxiety that would shadow me until my eventual relocation. I would rejoice upon the rare occasions when I would come home to an empty flat, yet the relief would always give way to the waiting of the axe to fall, the anticipation of voices drifting up the garden path, a key in the lock, the rustle of coats, the knocks and clatters of people rummaging through the kitchen. Sleep, even under best-case conditions, was often a long time coming.

On the occasions where my fears were realised my pulse would skyrocket, my mind racing to determine the proper course of action. What time is it? How loud is it really? Am I being a grandad? Should I let it slide, or would I be justified if I lost my proverbial sh*t?

After a handful of fractious, late-night confrontations I realised I was quite simply donew ith communal living. We all get there in the end. I needed to find somewhere more suitable to my lifestyle and just let them get on with it. No hard feelings.

A New Hope

And so I wound up in Alt-Treptow sharing with a dear friend in the nicest flat in which I’ve lived so far. Everything is just right: just the right size, just the right price, just the right location, and, most importantly, my housemate and I have just the right schedules. Jessie tends bar, often working til the wee smalls, so I usually come home to an empty flat, the novelty of which has yet to wear off after over a year.

Now, you might be wondering if Jessie’s late returns home invoke the same heart-pounding anxiety as those of my previous cohabitants.

Nope. When Jessie comes home … he’s quiet. I’ve never been woken up by him, not once. Because Jessie is a responsible housemate. And not a self-absorbed shi*tbag.

After about two weeks of living there my anxiety was gone. Peace would reign, sleep would be deep and satisfying. All would be right with the world.

Enter Frau Oben.

The Force Awakens

Frau Oben, 56, is a dumpy, red-faced woman, and almost perfectly spherical. Her puffy cheeks, full-stop eyes, and permanent lack of breath betray a flabby and confused indignation, as if she’s perpetually hunting some unknown miscreant that’s just pelted her with a snowball.

Jessie warned me of Frau Oben before I moved in, and subsequently I haven’t pushed my luck in this flat much at all. I wanted to play ball, so I played by the rules. I’ve had no parties, I haven’t dared play even a quiet song on my guitar in months, and the single largest gathering I’ve thrown involved four people, all of whom were gone by a weekend 10pm. I’m really not here to cause trouble.

But Frau Oben cares little for these trifling considerations. Everything is too loud. Jessie and I having a conversation in the kitchen at 8pm? Zu laut! Me listening to YouTube videos? Zu laut! Me closing the bathroom door? Zu laut! Me talking on the phone to my father? Zu laut! Me walking around? Zu laut!

And she meant me. In her complaints she singled out the tall English dude with the bad German. I don’t think her and I were meant to be.

Jessie regarded her with patience and pragmatism. His plan was to give out his number and ask her to telephone if she hears excessive noise. And so I’d often find myself sat in bed quietly reading, only to find myself fielding calls from a weary Jessie telling me that the witch was ranting again and asking if I was playing any music. She’s even barked about noise made when neither of us were even home. This woman would complain about loud mourners at her own f**king funeral.

Jessie and I decided enough was enough. Yesterday we began looking for other apartments. It wasn’t worth it. We wanted a home we could talk in. Just a few short weeks and we’d be gone. She did it. She won.

The Empire Strikes Back

This brings us up to the events of last night.

It began, as per usual, with me listening to my tinny, bass-free laptop, a creaking Lenovo, cheapest on the market (the speakers are so weak I can’t listen to videos and eat at the same time, the chewing drowns out the audio). The washing machine isn’t on, I’m not running any taps, there’s nothing bubbling away on the stove, it’s just me, sat on my bed, listening to YouTube videos about computer games.

Bump, bump, bump!

It’s coming from upstairs. Frau Oben is registering displeasure in her usual percussive manner. I ignore it. Honestly, you’d struggle to hear the audio if you were hiding under the bed.

I carry on about my business. Soon afterward I hear some movement, the opening of her front door, and a soft, zombie-like shuffle.

Bump, bump, bump. The front door this time.

I know what’s coming. I haul open the door and there she is, panting like a marathon runner, her trademark single, blue crutch seemingly the only thing keeping gravity from wrestling her to the floor. The accusations begin.

I try and reason with her. I invite her in to check for herself the wimpy decrepitude of my laptop speakers. She refuses, so I bring it to her. She says I must’ve turned it down.

The conversation was, in retrospect, quite ridiculous. Y’see, for one reason or another I can say way more in German than I can understand, meaning I can speak enough to get my rough point across but often find it difficult to understand and respond to anything the other person is saying, sort of like your average UKIP supporter. So I lay out my case, explaining that I’m not a bad guy, that we have no problems with the other neighbours, and that it must be coming from somewhere else. Nope, she’s having none of it. She’s off to the races, seemingly reluctant to return to her flat, and I toy with the idea that perhaps she’s just a whole new level of lonely.

I phone Jessie, hoping his German can bail me out of a tight spot. She doesn’t seem interested in talking to him, but I persist. She eventually takes the receiver, words are exchanged, she hands back the phone, mumbles, and with the turning circle of an aircraft carrier, begins her retreat to home territory, hobbling back upstairs at the speed of a advancing glacier.

It is twenty minutes past seven in the evening. Eight-year-olds aren’t even in bed yet.

No sooner have I sat back on my bed than Jessie returns. I mention Snorlax’s recent departure and, at his wits end, he heads upstairs to confront the beast. I leave my laptop on; to prove a point I resume my video, turning the volume up to the max, louder even than it was before her arrival. Even with both apartment doors open, Jessie can’t hear it.

Things start getting funny. At one point Jessie goes to leave:

“You’ve got no case! You’ve literally got nothing! I’m out of here.”

“Don’t touch my door!”

“Then how the hell am I supposed to leave?!“

Jessie escapes, returning completely exasperated. His plan of action is a perfect one.

“Let’s go get a drink.”

The Attack of the Clones

Fast-forward two hours. I return to the flat after two delightful yet morbidly expensive cocktails at a nearby bar. I have calmed myself down, uninterested in making things any more stressful. I return to my bed, plugging in my earphones and settling in for a quiet evening. Not long afterwards Jessie also returns, and after a few minutes retreats to his bed. As a barman his body clock is often completely out of whack. The man works hard, and needs his sleep, which he achieves with ease. The storm, it seems, has passed.

Bump, bump, bump!

The door.

This won’t be fun.

I hear it through my earphones, and plucking them out I hesitate for a moment. No good can come of answering the door. The flat is literally silent. Jessie is asleep. My heart begins pounding.

…

… f**k this, I’m answering! What is it, you old c*nt?! Is my blinking keeping you awake?!

I open the door. She’s not alone.

Behold, two cigarette-scented, greasy lookin’ f**kers, slicked hair and earrings, old tattoos and faded leather jackets, both sad reminders of the effects of excess alcohol and a lack of good conversation.

Oh my good lord, she’s brought goons!

The one at the back was a skinny, mute, long-haired, East German version of Steve Buscemi, who barely took his eyes off his buddy, the one in the front, a fraction younger and slightly more alcoholically emboldened. We’re gonna call them, respectively, Lenny and Carl. They ask if I’m alone. They’ve come to take some names.

Jessie awakens to the commotion and emerges from his room, clad in just his boxers. This is significant; if I haven’t mentioned earlier, Jessie is a giant black guy from Pennsylvania who used to be in the army. He could snap me over his knee if he were that way inclined. Him and I are, in terms of physique, binary opposites. In this moment, I have never been happier to have him as a flatmate. His presence makes these clowns look all the scrawnier.

All of a sudden Carl is finding eye-contact difficult. Lenny purses his lips, and looks around awkwardly. Frau Oben has yet to say a word. Carl remembers himself, and resumes his threats, but swiftly forgets himself again when he threatens to call the cops.

Pro tip: when the hard-man you’ve brought round to intimidate your neighbours threatens to call the police, the man is a f**king amateur. I hope to god she kept the receipt.

Jessie stands firm. I, meanwhile, have yet to move a muscle since I opened the door. I’m not terrified (I’d admit it if I was), I’m just sort of … bewildered. This might just be the most ludicrous situation in which I’ve ever found myself. These are the sh*ttest goons ever. Here I am at half-past midnight being bullied by Mrs Blobby and the god damn Chuckle Brothers.

Since Jessie emerged not one of these three idiots has so much as glanced at me. The presence of the puzzled, lanky Brit is clearly of no concern to anyone here, perhaps the only judgement they get right all night. Carl, feeling perky, inches towards Jessie, jabbing a finger, at which point both Lenny and Frau Oben grab him back, but it’s rather more West Side Story than it is Goodfellas, and Jessie is unperturbed. At some point an awkward silence kicks in. In the movies these altercations usually end with some strong parting zingers but everything was just too ridiculous for that, and in the end they kinda … got bored and … wandered off.

We close the door, and Jessie and I stand in the hallway, hands on our heads, trying to figure out what in the actual f**k that was all about. We decide to call the police. I mean, we were just threatened on our own doorstep, even if it was by two original extras from ‘Grease’.

In truth the rest of this story just kinda fizzles out. The adrenaline wears off and all of a sudden we’re both shaking from the cold. We put on clothes and sit waiting in the kitchen. After about fifteen minutes the police arrive, five of them, and question Jessie at the door, me sat glum and impotent at the kitchen table. Once they’d heard our story they went upstairs to the batty old cow. She admits to bringing over two ‘friends’, but claims it was because we’d threatened her first. The police give her short shrift, but in the end there’s no evidence that either of us are telling the truth, and so the police just warn us to keep our heads, and the noise, down. Show’s over. Nothing to see here. Bed time.

The Phantom Menace

Today has been spent indoors. Jessie has been out all day looking at flats. Any audio has been played through headphones. It is a life-free house, just what she always wanted.

This morning Jessie received an email from the landlord. He’s in trouble for the noise complaints, and could be in even more trouble for allowing me to live here. It’s a violation of his rental contract, apparently. We literally can’t leave soon enough.

The doorbell has gone twice today. The first time was a package delivery for a neighbour, the second when said neighbour came to collect said package. Both times upon hearing the bell my heart leaped into my chest. The anxiety has returned. It was too good to last. Another escape is imminent. The search for a home continues.

I can hear the haggard old wench going about her business upstairs. She has no idea how much she’s ruined this house for me. It was so unbearably close to being perfect. I fled my old place due to excess volume, and now I flee another because some wacko thinks the same of me. Life can be so unkind.

Soon this will be another hilarious story to wheel out in good company, and my recounting it now serves to occupy my frazzled mind, provide a much needed outlet, and to capture this tale whilst it’s still fresh. In years to come I intend to re-read this from the comfort of my own perfect humble abode, perhaps with some awesome neighbours in attendance, giggling and wryly shaking our heads at the trials of our pasts before polishing off another bottle of wine. Perhaps it’s a lesson in patience, both toward the oddballs that have it out for us, and toward those spells in life we have no choice but to grin and bear before the time to move on presents itself once more.

One day. But right now I hope she trips and chokes on her stupid f**king blue crutch, the daft sack of sh*t.