The door to the wildebeest

My neighbor, the wildebeest, is having trouble with her door again. Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! What is it with her and her front door?

She must have grown up in a place with no doors. In my imagination I see her as a child, wearing a grass skirt and sleeping in one of those structures the South Sea Islanders used to have, a roof of palm fronds with no doors and no WALLS! One great big picture window.

I think back on the construction sounds I hear coming from the wildebeest's apartment from time to time, hammering and electric drills, and I imagine she's taken down the doors and hung beaded curtains in every frame like she's living in the apartment of a fortune teller. Perhaps she is one, sweeping the beaded curtains aside to look through the doorways to the future with a click and a clack.

When I see the wildebeest walking to her car most every morning in her bright red coat, her little white dog in tow on its leash, I imagine that she works at an abattoir (she has the face of a butcher) and ambles through those big clear plastic flaps in the doorways to the cold rooms. I think the wildebeest would feed scraps to her little white dog and the little white dog would get splashes of blood on its little white breast.

For the first time ever I heard the sound of a vacuum from the wildebeest's apartment and it ran for three whole seconds!


I paused in order to get something to eat, since I was getting the shakes from sitting on the couch reading LJ all day, and more construction sounds started from next door! A great pounding on her kitchen wall. The same wall my kitchen shares, our apartments being mirrors of each other. I could hear plaster crumbling down and once a glancing blow on the radiator pipe that sang through my kitchen radiator. Whanggggg!!

She's brought in my landlord, George. You all remember my landlord, George? The mafia's own, real-life Corky Romano? In The Sopranos there's that one guy with the nickname Big Pussy? If the mafia gave my landlord, George, a nickname it would be Big Turtle-head.

They're doing something to the radiator in there. Pipes are being unscrewed with a great squeaking. Or that could be her little dog squealing. Or there's something living in the radiator pipes and George needs to get it out.

Maybe George has found the cause of the high water usage. He's been complaining about it for months. He left a message on my phone, "Hey, seaslug of doom, it's George." He always says this like it's the last thing he intends to say before he jumps off a bridge. "The water bill is still really high. I figured it out. It's about 15,000 or 20,000 gallons a month. So if you hear any water running would you let me know? Thanks." I always expect the sound of a gunshot, then a body hitting the floor, and then a dial tone when George calls.
  • Current Mood: frikkin starving
My next door neighbor has trouble with doors, too. SLAM! SLAM! Then: THUD THUD THUD THUD from him walking down the stairs. Everything is done with an exclamation mark. I think he's six years old.
My darling neighbor wildebeest can't seem to work them properly. First she was locked into her apartment, then she was locked out of her apartment, and always with the slam, slam. I'd give a lot to see what she would make of a revolving door.
You've been added to NEPA Blogs!
My dear Seaslug of Doom, I have taken the liberty of adding The Speaking Sisyphus Stone to the roster of Northeastern Pennsylvania bloggers listed on NEPA Blogs, my poor little effort to figure out just how many bloggers we have in this little corner of the state.

If you don't want to be listed, just let me know at And if you know of any other local bloggers, let me know that, too! We've got 16 of them listed in our first week of existence. I'm sure there are several thousand more.

D.B. Echo