that old guy who lives next door

It doesn't look like I'll be getting back to sleep, so I may as well tell you a story.

A quarter after 4. In the AM. I hear laughing, the clanking of bottles, and a familiar-sounding, unison chorus of "Oh!" followed by louder laughing. Andi and I have new neighbors in the townhouse next door, and they had a few folks over for some drinks. I'd heard a smattering of conversation around 2:30, but in my mind the time meant that it would probably be wrapping up soon. I rolled over and managed some more sleep. At 4:15, though, the chorus of "Oh!" coming from pretty much directly below our bedroom window woke Andi.

Andi is a sleeper. It takes a serious something to get her to wake up. I'm pretty sure that a well-placed pin drop is enough to stop one of my R.E.M. cycles, so I have no idea how she does it. I do know that I've come home after a long night of being generally up to no good(usually with The Worx crowd) to find that Andi has already gone to bed. Trying to get to the bed in the dark, I'll trip over things, knock other things over, and smack my belt buckle against the wall to make enough noise that any reasonable person would be awake and saying "Just turn a light on, idiot." Andi, though, wakes up in the morning, roll towards me, and says she doesn't remember me getting home.

If Andi is awake at 4:15, there's definitely a problem. I spent 15 minutes hoping they would miraculously quiet down so we could go back to sleep, having horrid flashbacks with each "Oh!" to living at Lake Park in Raleigh and losing whole nights of sleep to drunken rednecks screaming "I'm Rick James bitch!!! What!?! Okay!!!" in a continuous loop(one of a million reasons why I hate Chappelle's Show to this day). Something needed to be done. The noise was only increasing as the drinks next door continued to be consumed.

At 4:30, I walked downstairs and pushed open the door to the back deck. I hurled a few polite words over the storage closet that separates our deck from theirs, but it didn't get through the noise. Crap. Those jerks are going to make me put pants on. Stumbling around in the dark (why I feel like I can't cut a light on is a question I'll leave to the philosophers), I found a pair of jeans. I was on the way out the door when it occurred to me that, for dignity's sake, I should also probably throw on a shirt. I really need to start exercising again, by the way.

I walked up the stairs to their deck, and saw a collection of about eight folks sitting around with bottles of Coors Light. Some of them looked young enough that I'd believe it if someone told me that the Coors Light in question had been purchased by an unseen 9th person. I explained that I wasn't trying to be that guy, but it was 4:30 in the AM and we were basically trying to sleep right next to the brouhaha.

"Oh. I'm sorry sir."
"We can take it inside, sir."
"Sorry sir, but thanks for coming out here instead of calling the cops."

Sir? Every last one of them who spoke to me called me "sir." I don't know if I'm ready to be "sir." I thanked them for being cool about it, and was called "sir" one more time as I walked back to my deck. Like an idiot, though, I had to throw out there my objection to being called "sir."

"All those 'sirs' are making me feel old," I informed them.
"How old are you?" An honest question, deserving of an honest answer.
"Twenty-nine."
"Oh, you're not old, I'm twenty-three and I'm, not old."

Twenty-three. At least I know who bought the beer.