cannonball drop

Obesity is a national epidemic.

And it is having children.

Our apartment is, as I think I might've mentioned before, the lower floor of what is technically a three-story building. The ground floor is where cars live, under the premise that when upstairs neighbors throw parties and move furniture around, the neighbors underneath will be less likely to complain if they lack fundamentals like, say, lips. The next floor up is where we live, in one of the larger apartments at either end of the building. Our apartment is one of the larger apartments, in the sense that it is a two bedroom apartment instead of a one bedroom, a legacy of the days when I had a roommate.

We retained the two bedroom instead of a cheaper one bedroom when the Guy and I married, as it became evident almost immediately that in order for our relationship to survive, the servers would have to have a room of their own. Scientific studies notwithstanding, I was growing convinced that they had designs on my ovaries. Sterility should be a choice, not an inevitability.

If you have been following, you will have realized by now that this means we are in that unenviable position of being on the middle floor. Above us, neighbors. Below us, cars. Both are capable of being noxious and explosive without warning.

Up until recently, this has not been a problem. Our upstairs neighbors, with the exception of one deeply unhappy man who worked the graveyard shift, and a group of ancient hippies with musical aspirations, have mostly been quiet folk. I use the word "folk" without deep irony. None of the upstairs neighbors have shown any propensities for terrorism. In fact, we rarely see each other at all, save for the chance encounter on the stairwell, at which point we politely avert our gazes to avoid eye contact, like civilized people. Which explains why I didn't realize that the hippies had moved out.

Unfortunately, this meant we were completely unprepared when the Cannonballs moved in.

It started with a heavy rumbling that shook our ceiling, and penetrated even the agonized wail of American Idol on TV. The Guy came out of his office to stare up, with me, as though we could penetrate not-too-sturdy plaster to winkle out our neighbors' activities. An idle bystander would have thought we were communing with heaven.

In our own way, perhaps we were.

"What are they doing up there?" the Guy demanded, I presume of God since I had no special claims to x-ray vision.

It sounded like they were moving furniture around. I made the suggestion, which was not rejected out-of-hand.

"Stupid hippies," said the Guy, and retreated back into his office.

I turned up the TV, the dull sound of moving furniture a backdrop to saccharine pop music.

About an hour later, the sound of furniture stopped, to be replaced with the sound of somebody -- I kid you not -- dribbling bowling balls.

THUUUUUMP. (pause.) Thump. (shorter pause.) Thump-thump-thu-thu-thudathudathudathuda thump.

The Guy came out of the office again and stared up, awed.

THUUUUUUMP. (pause.) Thump. (Shorter pause.) Thump-thump-thu-thu-thudathudathudathuda thump.

He sat down on the sofa, next to me. I muted the TV. The two of us held hands and gaped up at the ceiling. We were transfixed.

THUUUUUUUMP.

From time to time, by way of variation, there would be screaming upstairs, accompanied by BADA BADA BADA skoooooooooooch skoooooooch BADA BADA BADA sounds, as if an exciteable jackhammer had embarked on an amorous courtship of a vacuum cleaner in front of a group of fundamentalist technophobes.

"What are they doing?" demanded the Guy again, rhetorically. He disappeared into the bathroom and emerged with the mop, the handle of which he used to tap gingerly at the ceiling.

He has used this method before, in dealing with Heisenberg. With, I might add, less than spectacular success. My husband is an optimist.

BADA BADA BADA BADA! retorted the ceiling. Skooooooooooch. THUMP. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" thump. skooooooo--BADA BADA--ooooch. thu-thu-thudathuda "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

"I think you made it mad," I said.

As though in agreement, the ceiling shivered and announced, sternly, Buddha buddha buddha buddha bu-bu-bu-bu-bu. THUMP.

Defeated, the Guy disappeared into the darkness of his office again, shoulders hunched around his ears. I gave myself up to the fascination of listening to our surround-sound ceiling.

It was not until several days later that we realized we had new neighbors. Three days of reruns had given us little by way of insight into our neighbors' activities. Hitherto, the hippies' method of self-expression had been confined to jam sessions of "Blowing in the Wind" and "Puff the Magic Dragon." Bowling Ball basketball was something new. Operating under the delusion that the gentle-spirited (if atonal) company still lived upstairs, we hoped, frankly, that they'd get over it. Listening to dim renditions of "Blowing in the Wind," while no aesthetic treat, was nonetheless preferable to this curiously ghetto redneck sport taking place above our heads.

On the third day, I encountered a new group of people on the stairs. It was a large family of who-knows-how-many children, being shepherded by a pair of robust-looking parents.

Let there be no mistake: I use the word "large" with purpose, intending every possible interpretation. The parents were short and solid, on the high end of the periodic table. The children, like overripe celestial satellites, had attained a radiant, geometric perfection that would have been a delight to any Animal Farm cartoonist. It did not require any imagination at all to realize these children were fed well. Not only were they fed well, they were fed richly, on diets built around a foundation of cheese, lard, and meats. Their breakfasts were fried. Their dinners were refried. Their before-bed snacks constituted a bag of chocolate chip cookies, whole milk, and a side of bacon.

They rolled up the stairs -- the stone stairs -- and made them quake. Unable to squeeze by them, I paused on the landing to give them free access. The children continued up another floor, yelling at the top of their lungs, and I felt the entire building cower in terror as they rumbled across that level too.

I told the Guy about them that night, while the inevitable THUMP. thump. Thump-a-thump-a-thud took place overhead.

He was distracted and, I fear, not very interested -- but he listened to enough to understand the gist of my narrative.

"They're dropping the kids off the furniture," he decided. His voice was taking on a "hot steam under pressure" quality. THUMP. "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" BADA BADA BADA THUMP. "They're moving the furniture around, getting on top of it, picking up their kids, and throwing them to the floor.

THUMPATHUMPATHUMPA "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!" BADA BADA Skooooooooooooch THUMP.

"Assholes," the Guy said.

"Fuckers," I agreed.

The Guy went back into his office and closed the door.

THUMP.