Deleteriousness

Being fancy means not being allowed to do anything for yourself. That was part of what drew me to my apartment complex, their promises that I wouldn’t have to lift a finger in my apartment, they would handle every single repair and mouse and leak and dust bunny there was, and all I had to do was exist. I’d been practicing my existence for several months then and I was confident that I could take on the task of professionally existing. They have been true to their word, they cleaned my entire kitchen when my upstairs neighbors stuffed a moose down their garbage disposal, they routinely parole the outer fortress walls to keep out any spiders, and they even hefted/bolted/stabilized/plugged in/watched my new tv while I sat on the couch existing. We need not delve into the 3NewWashingMachineReplacements Incident. I’ve felt pampered and indulged during my time there. I don’t even worry about the giant light bulbs over my vanity sink or the batteries in my smoke detectors.

I got home Tuesday night with my arms full of takeout food and leapt into the nude to professionally indulge my pampered existence. Movie, food and no clothes = best life ever. It was a few minutes of loud movie and my yummy sounds before I heard the noise. I looked at my phone even though I knew I didn’t have it set to “suspicious beeping” mode, and then went on a sleuth hunt around my living room to try to find the source. The least my mortal enemies could do would be to plant a bomb that didn’t beep loudly every few seconds, I scoffed to myself. The shortsighted fools. It didn’t take me long to realize the noise was coming from my bedroom, however, especially since the entire space of my apartment is basically a box with one wall. I scrambled in there and gaped open-mouthed at my smoke detector, which was beeping.


It wasn’t screeching, like I hoped it would do if I lit myself on fire, or even shouting, like it does when I burn eggs. Just chirruping cheerfully to itself, like it was singing The Doom Song. “Beep!..........Beep!...........Beep!............TheBeep!...........AaaaaaaandBeep!..............BoopityBeep!.........Giggle!............BEEEEEEP!!............Haha JK Beep!............Doom!..............” I stood staring at it with my hands on my hips, suppressing the surge of an internal battle of wills between my own existential boundaries, and this thing’s right to express itself in beeps. Marxism is mostly invalid when your opponent doesn’t have an arm to swing at your nose. Really I was just stalling because I didn’t have a clue what to do. I knew from experience that this fell under the jurisdiction of The Management Company and I couldn’t so much as reach up there to poke at the buttons without passing the retinal scan. And despite the omnipresence of The Company they still kept regular office hours, which meant their omnipresence had gone home for the evening 15 minutes ago. It was just me and the beeping, trapped together for the night in complete immobilization because of all the fancy.


I decided it was no big deal and I’d be able to tune it out. I mean when I lived in Colton there was a train track 5 feet from our backyard, for crying out loud. My cubicle is right outside our breakroom where the attention-hungry deaf congregate and bellow recipes at each other. I’ve become so tuned out that people can be standing in front of me asking me if I want some chocolate, and I wander past them totally distracted by the battle on Hoth replaying in my head. Desensitizing to this innocuous beeping would be no sweat, less than 5 minutes and I wouldn’t hear it at all. Starting…..now.


“Beep!.............Beep!..............Beep!”


………Any second now.


“Beep!...............Beep!...............Beep!”


…………………….now?


“Beep!.............Beep!.................AndTheBeep!”


…………………………snarf………………..


“Beep!.....................................................................”


…………………….???...............................................


“……………………………………………………………….Beep! (ha!)”


3 and some-odd hours later, I found myself curled into a tight and quivering ball on the couch with the volume up to 55, and Stanley Tucci’s voice still sounded like beeping. Even after shutting the door to my room and trying to muffle it with various linens, the detector cleared its throat and projected to the back row. Even the circumference of the detector seemed to be growing, along with its ego. I’d resigned myself to sleeping on the couch that night but by 11pm, I was no closer to falling asleep than I am after riding Space Mountain, and much much further from asleep than when I’m at work. The beeping seemed to be spreading its discord through the objects in my house, so that my squishy nap couch suddenly seemed to be made of jagged iron beams, and my fuzzy hug blanket seemed to be made of dry leaves and ice. Thrashing around and kicking didn’t help either of those things. At 1:45am, I finally stomped into my room and flung myself on my bed, thinking that the beeping may be 3 inches from my head but at least I’d be comfortable.


Wasn’t. Being that close to the detector was like being hooked up to electric shock machines. Every beep made my muscles involuntarily jolt and spasm. I could almost see flashes of light when my eyes were closed. I’d brace myself and try to count seconds between the beeps so I’d be prepared, but every single time my body reacted with surprise. I realized that a psychological fear of beeping was boring deeper and deeper into my subconscious, because in the few seconds between beeps where I managed to fall asleep, my dreams were of bombs and failing heart monitors and punching in the code at the hatch on “Lost”. What had seemed like a cheerful chirp 7 hours prior now sounded like “MMAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!......................RRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENK!...................BLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!...................FNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!...............................THREATENINGGERMANPHRASES!.............................KNNNNNNNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVES!”


When my brain gave up and woke me for good at 4am, my blanket, fitted mattress sheet and pillowcase were twisted around my limbs and neck like they were auditioning to be skin. After fighting to free myself, which took several minutes, I slumped against the wall of my shower and just stared at the water. How precarious life is, thought I…. a simple, persistent noise from the 70s had drained my will to live. I fled from my house and ended up getting to work 45 minutes early, which is inexcusable. I resembled a caffeinated post-traumatic zombie whose nerves had been twisted by forks the rest of the day, startling violently and squeaking whenever someone’s phone beeped. I tried to remind myself how much better the beeping was than actually being on fire, and failed. When I got home, I walked straight to the detector and stood frozen for 70 seconds solid…………………………..and didn’t hear a sound. Either the Omnipresent Company had responded to my distress call, or I’d finally managed to tune out the noise. We may never know…


I’ve been initiated twice in my life, had people slop ketchup and mustard and honey and glitter and paint and multi-colored foam all over me and make me roll in mud, I’ve had nurses skewer me raw trying to find veins, I had both my hips dislocated just over a year ago, I’ve taken several math classes, and none of these brands of torture stripped my soul to the bearings like a night of beep. It’s possible this is a method being employed in Darfur or the misguided enforcers of the Patriot Act. My empathies.


Chant Down Babylon