The stucco ceiling above Jensen Mildred’s head creaked and groaned under the heavy tread of footsteps. Again his television was not loud enough to compete. Not against their walking, not against their lovemaking, not against any of their arguments. Only earplugs drowned out Jensen’s upstairs neighbors now, and only if both parties had their windows closed. 

Jensen refused to close his tonight. He had thrown out his ear plugs.

Behind the first set of stomps soon came the sexier clopping of heels. This stride and pitch always reminded Jensen of a show pony, though the girl, Joanna, was tenth the size of one. It was an elegant walk, yet determined, just as the neighbor herself seemed, and as such, it was also equally adorable.

Jensen rubbed his eyes and turned them back to the television. No matter how much he upped its volume, he could never ignore the thundering above enough to be enveloped by a plot. The mere knowledge that these people were the least bit audible spoiled his viewing experience. Half the time he was worried they might crash down on top of him.

He knew the girl’s name was Joanna. Jensen had once heard a friend address her in the driveway. However he guessed that the guy’s was Brandon. Smarmy, hip, dorky, he looked like a Brandon, avoided eye contact like a Brandon, never said hello like a Brandon, tromped around, laughed like a chimp, slammed doors like a Brandon. Still, Jensen had no way of confirming. The neighbors never introduced themselves, and Joanna only referred to her beau as ‘Babe.’ Jensen had no idea if they were even married. Joanna never got close enough to spot a ring.

THUD THUD THUD.

CLOP CLOP CLOP.

*****

It started when Mrs. Cheng moved to Miami to live with her son, leaving the upper unit ripe for the renting. Hell, you never heard a peep from Mrs. Cheng. At eighty-four, the woman could barely walk. There were some days Jensen thought she had died. Then the old bat would drop her TV remote, or kick over her cane, and the clue would reassure him. With her gone, the apartment was just as quiet vacant. Nothingness. Dead. Perfect. Two weeks later, ‘they’ arrived in a truck carrying bangs, thuds, booms, and slams.

You’d think a person would’ve grown accustomed to it eventually. Jensen, himself, did. Then, slowly, he couldn’t. It was a drawn out panicked realization. During the first week or so, sure, such a new audible presence would take time to ignore. Jensen had life too easy with Mrs. Cheng. He recognized that. This was reality catching up. It was what everyone else in this two-story building had to deal with. The floor separating the worlds were just that thin. So, so thin. God forbid this city ever suffered an earthquake, it all might come caving in.

By week three though, the reality Jensen accredited as karma suddenly turned oppressive. Was it him, or were they not just incredibly loud? Louder than the other places he had lived. Did normal people walk this way? Did he? In the reverse position, would his life sound so obnoxious? How many times a day could someone drop something? Honestly though- how many? And what kind of jobs did they work that neither left religiously from 8:30 AM to 5:30 PM like a majority of this country? 

*****

Tonight Jensen continued listening as they split strides over the living room, one to the bathroom, another towards the kitchen, back and forth, presumably gathering keys, wallet, and purse. Then they closed all their windows and locked their balcony door. 

Out for the night, Jensen smiled. It was Friday after all. Following the swift slam of their door that rattled the entire building, a tranquility resettled. Yet Jensen could still only idly flip through the hundreds of channels, staring beyond them and repeating a familiar mantra while dreading the footsteps’ return.

What to do, what to do, what to do?

*****

Had Jensen complained to the landlord? He had. 

Last month, Jensen, unloading groceries from his car, saw Mr. Polaski barking orders at the gardener. The landlord then gave a friendly wave before jogging over for one of his classic fast chats. Almost immediately Polaski asked if Jensen had met the newest tenants. 

Jensen answered, “No, but I have heard them.” 

“They throwing parties or something?” Polaski asked, wiping his brow. “They seem like straight-laced yuppies, too old to get rowdy.”

“No, nothing like that…” and Jensen instantly regretted his decision to say anything. “Just,” and he straightened his glasses, “they bang around while cooking and have such heavy footsteps. I’ve never heard people pound their feet like that.”

“Well, I can’t do anything about that. Can’t tell them not to walk around or cook…”

Jensen looked away, half in anger, half in surrender.

  Polaski sighed. “I’m not coming down on new tenants right off the bat for doing nothing wrong. At the rent they’re paying? I want to keep them here for as long as the market agrees…”

“What about keeping me?”

“Ha! Unfortunately, Mr. Mildred, you’re not paying their amount. In fact, the way your rent has been controlled for the past few years, and at the rate this block is gentrifying? Move out now and I could charge double what I charge you.”

Five minutes later, Jensen had never screamed so hard into a pillow. Immediately he was seized by shame. Landlords were business owners after all. They were a shade away from hotel managers, filling as many rooms with as many bodies to profit off occupied space. How sad it seemed to Jensen that a man should suffer at the hands of his own inability to fill empty space. How punishing ‘vacancy’ was already. Manifesting that feeling into an occupation had to be the next level of desolation. Starting at that moment, he vowed to dispel any bad notions for Polaski and his profession. He empathized too much in a way he thought only they could understand.

****

Now, weeks later, there Jensen was, staring beyond his television, flipping though channels and formulating a different kind of plan. 

****

The next morning, Saturday, was normally Jensen’s time to sleep in. Though he worked data entry from home, he kept a steadfast and self-disciplined schedule that rarely slipped or faltered. But surprise, surprise, on this particular morning he couldn’t. Joanna was hammering into the walls above, hanging up presumably tacky posters of the unknown bands she advertised on her t-shirts. 

It took them this long to decorate? Three months? Also, why choose 9 A.M. to do this?

Jensen, still in bed, rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He briefly imagined seeing through it like glass, watching Joanna by the wall with hammer and nail, wearing a short dress and that pink thong with the frayed lace he once found forgotten in the laundry room. He could picture its thin strip of material, worn in and worthy, pulled straight up the back of her thighs to then disappear. Jensen smiled as he remembered the first time he stood in his bathtub listening to her hum in the shower above. Yet he always had a difficult time picturing Joanna’s face. He had seen it maybe ten times, usually from afar. It was unspecific, but pretty, or so he convinced himself. Inevitably, it was a forgotten look veiled by his constant annoyance and personal refusal to ever look a woman in the eye. Instead, Joanna’s face had become a blank canvas. At times like these, Jensen donated the face of the gorgeous weather girl on Channel 5, but during fights with Brandon, he imagined her as a harpy shrew with a witch’s nose. One of these days, he’d get a decent look, maybe even sneak a photo. He’d be brave. After all, how strange was it to have someone so involved with your everyday life, yet they’re never seen. Jensen thought this as Joanna finished her hammering. He then heard her fall back onto her own bed and sigh. Due to their identical units, Jensen knew their mattress was directly above his. A large closet set inside their back wall offered just two places to situate a full-sized bed frame: in the opposite corner, or right in the middle of the room. Only the latter position allowed two people in and out of bed without having to climb over each other. Sometimes, late at night, Jensen envisioned them laying there, hovering parallel over him as they slept, their heads roughly eleven feet up (seven feet to his ceiling, then four to the surface of their mattress, then eight inches to either side of Jensen’s face). He knew how Brandon snored when drunk, and once heard Joanna rip a fart while Brandon was in the kitchen.

When Joanna got back to her feet to put the hammer away, Jensen followed. He also did this often while bored, mirroring her path through the unit, into the bathroom and hearing the toilet seat drop because Brandon was too inconsiderate, then into the kitchen where she grabbed a pot to fill with water. 

Pasta. 

No…

Too early for pasta.

Joanna had grabbed a skillet instead. It was still dirty. She was washing it. 

Now the fridge door hit the wall. She was grabbing something cold for breakfast. Milk? Eggs? Definitely eggs. Jensen could now hear her armed with a whisk, beating hard into the skillet. Eggs. In her short dress. That thong riding up. Maybe her bringing him the eggs instead of Brandon. Her footsteps out of the kitchen, to their front door, into the hallway, down the back stairs, right to his doorbell.

His fantasy was ruined by Brandon’s sudden arrival and grumbling. Jensen hated that he could never hear what exact words were said without standing on a step-stool to be closer to the ceiling. Otherwise he could only hear the tone. When they were laughing or arguing, he could never know why unless it turned to screaming. Thus it was often left to guess why Brandon sounded apologetic or who Joanne was doing a hilarious impression of. 

*****

Only on the back balcony could Jensen discern their exact words without elevated height. The recent winter months made this a rare instance. Still, about two weeks ago, on one unseasonably warm evening, the couple emerged to open a bottle of wine and toast the sunset. The moment Jensen head the rumble of their sliding door, he tiptoed to his own porch to listen in. 

“Babe, we have to get Angela and Mark a baby shower gift,” Joanna said. 

Brandon groaned. “Even though we’ve yet to receive a housewarming gift?”

Jensen, mindful of his breathing, heard Joanna playfully slap one of Brandon’s limbs.

“Be nice,” she warned.

A wine glass clinked as it was set down on their outdoor table.

“Isn’t this lovely, though?” Joanna said.

“Sure is.” Brandon’s chair creaked as he leaned back, over, or forward. 

“Anything’s better than our last balcony…” she added. 

“Oh what,” Brandon scoffed, “you didn’t enjoy the breathtaking views of that Russian guy’s dirt patch?”

Joanna laughed, “Not especially.” 

“Good riddance,” Brandon said. “Though it’s not like the neighbors here are any better. The one woman in front won’t clean up her dog shit, and the guy downstairs creeps me out.” Then Brandon lowered his voice. “That massive birthmark is something unfortunate. Is it a birthmark?”

“Shhh,” Joanna hushed.

Brandon laughed. “His face looks like one of those black & white cookies you see in a bakery.”

Jensen’s eye twitched.

“Babe, be quiet, I’m serious,” Joanna whispered, though she was clearly enjoying it. “He’s nodded to me the few times I’ve seen him. He’s nice enough.”

“I don’t trust anyone that quiet. I’ve only ever heard his television. You’d think he’d be on the phone once, or have friends over.”

“Maybe he is being loud, and the floors are just solid,” Joanna reasoned. “Or maybe he’s never home.”

“His car is always there.

“He could take a bus.”

“Maybe…” Brandon cleared his throat. “That’s generally a good rule of thumb: you hear your neighbors as much as they hear you. Nobody is ever that quiet.”

Jensen then slid his door shut. It was just loud enough, yet lightly enough, for them to question hearing it. 

*****

The worst noises came from their sex. The squeaking boxspring, the thumping headboard, Brandon’s apelike grunts. The climax and triumphant walk to the toilet- ladies first, of course. Throughout it, Joanna never made a peep. Jensen took this as a sign that she did not enjoy it, but who knows, she could’ve liquored herself up enough to sleep through it. 

One woman did squeal, however…

From February 20th to February 22nd, Jensen heard a young female occupant who was not Joanna.

Screw the normal venues of drama like novels, television series, and movies, Jensen had found himself front row center to the greatest show out there: real life. It was almost poetic how that particular Friday played out. Jensen, meticulously brewing a cup of his special weekend slow-drip coffee, heard Joanna say goodbye to Brandon outside their front door before wheeling a suitcase down the hallway. After five hours of hearing Brandon vacuuming and scrubbing the place like a madman, Jensen noted the sound of a different suitcase and pair of strange footsteps come clopping down the exact path. 

This woman was someone wild, someone seasoned and prepared, someone with a pair of lungs that really loved what she was receiving just as Brandon loved gifting it to her. All weekend Jensen heard this unfamiliar voice. At first, he loved it. Loved the secret. Loved the shambles that the upstairs relationship fell to. Only he knew. Jensen, knower of secrets of the very obnoxious. This was earned. This made up for the hammering, the snoring, the stomping, and playing gun-centric video games until late. Jensen always knew that hell existed- but it wasn’t a fiery pit filled with reddish demons. It was right in front of a person by the choices they had made themselves.

And Jensen was the grandest voyeur.

Yet he was so tempted to tell. 

So, so tempted.

When the mystery girl left and Joanna returned, Jensen actually laced up his boots to meet her in the hallway with a note. Why he backed down, Jensen couldn’t say. Part of it maybe had to do with his clothes. The ones today were stained and no longer fit. He couldn’t be seen like this. What would Joanna even say? How would she react to this monster handing her a piece of paper?

Later he’d be glad for his change of heart. 

The two deserved each other. 

*****

It happened to be another back porch conversation. From the panicked tone and slight mumbling, Jensen knew that Joanna was biting her nails as she shouted into her phone. Again, he slid his balcony door open slow enough as to not be heard.

“Yes, Sarah, of course I’m sure. What else could I do, get a doctor’s opinion? I did two different home tests…I don’t know, yes? I guess?…No, good god, no, he doesn’t know, and he’s not going to know…Well, we can’t keep it. I’m not ready… Yeah, ‘it.’ I’m calling ‘it’ an ‘it,’ Maybe you could not jump down my throat…”

Silence. The sound of sniffling.

“No…No, I’m sorry. That was out of line…No…Stop. It was bitchy…well, I also apologize…yeah…no, you’re right…I guess I just don’t know what to do. If I tell him, he’s going to pressure me into keeping it, and we’re not ready for that…I’m totally serious- he’d rather have a kid than get married. He says he wants a baby every goddamn week. Meanwhile, I can’t tell whether I even want to be with him.”

The idea of a newborn upstairs made Jensen shudder. Wasn’t the couple loud enough already? They had to throw a screaming child into the mix? Hell, why not get a St. Bernard puppy at that point? 

It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. If it did, that would be the final straw. 

Maybe Jensen could tell Joanna about Brandon’s February fling. That would split them up, get them out, but did Joanna deserve to be told? Each of them had their secret. Jensen could just as easily snitch on her for planning an abortion. Would they believe him though? What if they didn’t care?

His mind reeled all afternoon as he thought of a next step.

What to do, what to do, what to do?

*****

It eventuated in a plan of two stages.

Brandon, too trusting of their predominately white neighborhood, always left his car unlocked. What could happen in such a well-lit garage, locked under the building itself, as if you couldn’t be violated by someone placing something inside, instead of removing? A long con was all too easy to orchestrate. Jensen placed a purple hair tie in the cup holder of the front passenger door, right next to a Hilton hotel key he kept from an old conference. Then, he waited. He had no idea how long it would take for Joanna to ride in the car before noticing. In the end, this proved to be six days. On that night their upper apartment door slammed open and shut and Jensen distinctly heard the words, “THEN HOW ELSE DID IT GET THERE!?”

The remaining fallout was too loud to ignore. For a mere moment, Jensen thought the second stage of his plan would be unnecessary. Brandon slept on the couch for four nights total, and barely a peep was uttered between them. Then, Sunday morning, everything came out. Brandon must’ve used his charm and shitty good looks. Either way, the fucker was able to patch things up. Jensen heard only a snippet of their resolution after Joanna stepped onto the porch to sob.

“I swear,” Brandon said, emerging behind her, “look at me. Babe. Look into my eyes. I swear. This isn’t what you think. It was probably Jeanette from work. She put it down on our way to a client lunch or something. She just got back from Dallas on Tuesday, probably unloaded her pockets and forgot, I swear.”

“It better have been,” Joanna shuddered. “It better not have been who I think it was.”

“Look at me. Look. Okay? It wasn’t her. It. Was. Not. Her. I swear on my mother’s eventual grave. I promise you.”

“…”

“Now come back inside? Please?”

Joanna sniffled, and nothing more was said. Brandon sighed, got up, and by the sound of it, dusted off his knees before returning inside. Joanna soon surrendered, following suit. 

It was time for phase two. 

*****

Using of the oldest and most dependable logistics within civilization, Jensen countered his last ditch attack. How often had he relied on the postal service to deliver lifelines of intelligence the internet couldn’t offer? The anonymity of it was perfect. A marker, a high quality stock photo, and a stamped envelope- these items could bring down more men than a gun. 

But who to address it to? Jensen needed Brandon’s real name. This would require the least amount of tact, something he admittedly lacked. Jensen ruled out just asking him one day in the parking lot after ‘accidentally’ bumping into him. That would seem out of character. He wasn’t a decent actor after all. And there couldn’t be any possibility of Brandon tracing it back. Jensen feared that the most. So how to learn it? Internet searches failed (they were still too new to the building), and their mailbox proved impenetrable to pliers. Packages never seemed to be left waiting on their doorstep. Jensen was at a loss. Stagnation set in for nearly two weeks.

Then, out of nowhere, a godsend. Jensen, spiritual but not religious, thought this was karma hand-delivered once again. It was owed to him.

While chopping carrots one evening to the Jazz record he had at a respectable volume, Jensen was startled by a sudden knock on his door. Wiping his fingers on his apron he moved to the peephole to see a young nerdy thirty-something rocking on his heels. Jensen, unused to such intrusions, froze. A delivery? He expected no package. Solicitors? A salesman? It certainly wasn’t a neighbor. There were only two floors of four units each. He was familiar with everyone. The stranger was about to knock again when Jensen managed to utter a nervous, “W-who is it?”

“Richard, it’s Stan.” Stan wiped his feet on the doormat.

No answer. 

“Richard?” Stan asked.

“Umm,” Jensen stammered. “W-w-wrong apartment actually.”

Stan winced in a hurt embarrassment. “Oh sorry to bother you…”

“Not a problem.”

And Stan shuffled away. 

“Wait,” Jensen realized, and flung open the door. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

Stan turned back, saw Jensen’s face and birthmark, and immediately maintained fierce eye contact as to not stare anywhere else. “Uh, Richard?” 

“Which one? We have two residents with that name.” Sneaky Jensen. Very, very cunning.

“Richard Forbis?”

“Lives with Joanna?”

“Yes!”

“Ah,” Jensen’s heart leapt. “One more floor up. Directly over mine.”

“Thank you so much.”

Jensen nodded but was overwhelmed by every moment of the interaction.

The jerk upstairs was named Richard? No, no. Richard was a respectable name. Richard was the name of his favorite newscaster, and his old baseball coach, and one of his few friends in high school. His own late uncle was a high-powered lawyer named Richard. Such a dorky joker, stomping above, could never wear that name seriously, at least not in earnest. He shouldn’t, anyway. The schmuck looming above would forever be a Brandon. 

Jensen didn’t even finish his meal prep that night. He headed straight to his office desk and to a folder containing the entirety of his plan, where, under the laughter and stomps of Brandon and Stan, everything recommenced. 

*****

In the following few days, Jensen’s work suffered. He was too excited. He desperately awaited the denouement, the fruit, the prize. Ideally he hoped to see Brandon’s face as he opened the mailbox and two inclosed envelopes. Jensen continuously trekked outside to check his own mail, hoping he’d be there at just the right moment to witness this scene. He even contemplated stationing a lawn chair across the street with binoculars, but knew that would prove too conspicuous. He would have to wait and listen just as he had for months. Wait and listen.

It proved perfect.

Jensen heard exactly when Brandon got the letters, knew it because of the way Brandon pulled up in his car, and the neighbor jauntily sprang out in a good mood, then off to the mailbox and its squeaky hinge, followed by a single tread to right above the window Jensen peered out from. The next few moments of Brandon’s life were unheard, thus unknowable. Whether he dropped the mail on some door-side table, or held it the entire time in his hand, Jensen only heard Brandon kick off his shoes and walk to the kitchen. Fridge opened and closed, Brandon retraced his path passed the front door and into the bathroom for a quick piss. After then venturing back into the kitchen he dragged out a chair to sit at the table.

Ten minutes passed before Jensen heard anything more. Breathing at a minimum, crotched on top of his counter to be closer to the ceiling, suddenly there was a pregnant nothingness. Jensen was practically blind, he hated it. His fists clenched, tighter than his smile. His heart rate soared. He wondered which one of the two envelops he had opened first. Then, BANG. A fist on table. BANG again. Now a slight sob. Jensen was elated, covering his mouth as to not laugh out loud. Looks like he opened the one containing a bill from Planned Parenthood. The sonogram from the hospital, specifically addressed to him, would be next.

Suddenly Brandon’s kitchen chair pushed out and crashed against the dishwasher, startling Jensen into practically ducking. Another fist. BANG. Jensen squealed with delight. Another frustrated sob and growl, more cries, more pounding, only now against the floor. It was the first time Jensen didn’t mind the thumping from upstairs. In fact, it was music, pure and sweet orchestral percussiveness. Miles Davis and his quintet couldn’t elicit this same kind of bliss. 

Brandon staggered forward to grab his phone from his pocket. Jensen soon registered that standing on the counter no longer mattered as Brandon was now screaming.

“Is Joanna there please? It’s an emergency.” A beat. “Fine, I’ll try her cell.”

Another long beat, too long for her to have answered. Must’ve reached her voicemail. Brandon spoke calmly at first, but lost patience with every next word. “Joanna, please call me, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? CALL ME NOW.”

Brandon hung up in time to emit an angry scream from somewhere deep. It was animalistic. It was unnerving. It combined tears, disgust, and the rage of frustration. Jensen scoffed and chuckled, but it was weighted by a growing sense of guilt and doubt. Outside, a car pulled into the garage. Both Jensen and Brandon rushed to the window to confirm. 

Joanna. 

“BITCH.” A deafening slam from above. Something heavy tipped over. 

Jensen bit his nails, no longer smiling. He heard Joanna shut her car door and beep the alarm, then stroll up the driveway, completely unaware. Deep down Jensen wished she would just keep walking, down the street, out of town, and avoid what was to come. He had a sudden terrible feeling. 

Brandon, above, walked back to the kitchen table.

Once Joanna came through the door, Jensen thought Brandon would spring like a half-burned maniac. He didn’t, and Joanna kicked off her heels with light abandon. This was followed by murmurs above. She was asking Brandon a question. Jensen couldn’t discern exactly what without climbing back onto his counter, which weirdly enough he was slow to do. But Brandon gave no answer. Jensen could feel the intensity that far below. Joanna then walked to the kitchen table.

“What’s with you?”

No answer from Brandon. Jensen thought he heard the passing of papers, but couldn’t be certain. 

“What’s this?”

“You tell me, Joanna…” Brandon muttered. There was an ugly spite in his voice, a festering on the way he said her name.

“Uh, I don’t kn-”

SMACK.

Jensen gasped. The universe itself seemed to pause. In all these weeks, he had never heard physical abuse from Brandon, nothing even close. Not in a million years did he expect this kind of aggression from such a gossamer dork.

Joanna, meanwhile, sounded equally shocked. Jensen heard a quick sob, but nothing else for what seemed like minutes. Regaining strength and dignity, she soon sneered, “Feel like a big man now?”

“Did you abort a baby?”

Now it was Joanna’s turn to refuse responding.

Brandon was even louder. 

“DID YOU HAVE AN ABORTION?”

“YES, RICHARD, I DID.”

SMACK again. 

Joanna thrusted out her chair to dash away but Brandon held fast. Something metallic was grabbed from the counter, a light pointed scrape on the formica that caused a single pair of knees to hit the floor. Jensen couldn’t tell whose from his living room. There he was, frantically thumbing through channels again, wondering what to put on first in the new settling silence.