I'm just sitting here in my living room, enjoying some of the finer things in life. Candles. My new DVD player. Talking to my lovely mother on the phone. Feelings of peace and contentment wash over me as I enjoy a bite of my perfectly cooked, gourmet quality, genuine American Pop-Tart (all rights reserved.) I'm thinking to myself that life really can't get much better........and then, without warning.....BUUUUUUUUUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!
I am RIPPED from my peaceful state, jump approximately three feet in the air, and spasm so violently that my right hand seems to, of it's own accord, PROJECT my pop-tart across the room and my left leg bucks so wildly that it manages to kick my poor, abused laptop off the couch and onto the hard wooden floor. After about a minute of these shenanigans, I manage to collect myself, stop shaking, rescue my laptop and pop-tart from their various corners of the living room, and regain control of my breathing. No, it wasn't a smoke alarm, or an ambulance siren outside my window, or even a loud and scary crashing noise. It was the downstairs buzzer (doorbell-ish thing) to my apartment. Anyone who has lived in an apartment building that isn't a crack den (no offense intended to my crack den dwelling friends) knows that to get INTO said building, you have to push the little button labeled with your friend, lover, or stalkee's name. Then they say "hello?" and you say "hey friend/lover/stalkee, it's me, can I come in?" To which the person on the other end replies with a friendly/romantic "Yeah sure!" and then they push their little button inside their apartment that unlocks the front door for you. I guess if it's the stalkee situation the whole scenario might play out differently. But it's generally a simple interaction between two people, and nobody throws their pop-tart across the room about it.
BUT! Not in my case! No words can describe the terrible, piercing, gut wrenching, spasm inducing, ninth circle of hell-esque (Dante would have included it if he'd ever heard it) sound that is my buzzer. I DO NOT EXAGGERATE when I describe my reaction to it. My reaction was, of course, heightened by two factors. 1) I was not expecting anyone. 2) IT WAS MIDNIGHT. Item number one is of importance because I figure that unless one of the (let's be honest) relatively few people I know in this city has informed me of their imminent arrival, anyone buzzing my buzzer (that sounds a little dirty), is either: a German TV tax collector in disguise who will somehow sweet talk their way into my apartment and then, upon seeing my TV, scream "AH-HA! VEE KNEW IT! PAY NOW OR VEE VILL KEEL YOU!" or an Unidentified Scary Person (henceforth referred to as USP.) Call me crazy, but that's just what I assume.
So, when I hear the piercing shriek of my buzzer at midnight on a Saturday, and almost every one of my friends is out of town on vacation, AND it's a little too late for tax collectors to be trolling the streets, I automatically jump to possibility number 3: USP.
So, I've calmed myself down after the first buzz, assured my mother (who yes, was still on the phone while this whole thing went down) that I'm fine and haven't suffered any sort of psychological fit, and restored some semblance of calm in the domain of my living room.
AND THEN IT HAPPENS AGAIN.
AND AGAIN.
AND AGAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN.
By this time, I've passed the normal state of abject terror that unexpected sound of the buzzer instills in me, and moved on to more of a....primal rage. I wrench open the window, am blasted by the icy October wind, and direct my enraged stare to the street corner five stories below. And lo, to what do my wondering eyes appear- a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer! Oh, whoops. No that's not right. Oh yes. It was a group of drunken imbeciles, having a grand old time and quite a few laughs while jamming their dirty little fingers down on all the buzzers at the front of my building. Over and over again.
Now, I've been a drunken imbecile. On a number of occasions. I'm sure I've offended lots of people. But REALLY. COME ON. These were grown men. As my friend Chris says "If you're seventeen, whatever. If your 25, I lose my patience." AND THEY JUST KEPT GOING. Obviously they were too inebriated to feel the heat of my molten hot death stare beating down upon them.
I was just about to start pelting them with foodstuffs. Seriously. I had my pop-tart in my hand. My arm was cocked back, prepared to deliver the punishing blow. Was I going to slam my window shut and duck down below the sill like a coward the minute the toaster pastry left my hand? Well yes, yes I was. But that's really not the point here. The point is that I was prepared to stand up for JUSTICE. And DIGNITY. And.....other stuff.
But, as fate would have it, the drunken imbeciles wised up and moved on about two seconds before my deathly projectile left my window.
All I can say is, lucky for them.
