Five nights a week for two years.
Every evening at five past seven.
Of course it also happened the other two nights of the week, except that I wasn’t there. Those were her nights.
Five past seven was when Marcello the Romanian went home to walk his dog.
A sea change.
I really couldn’t tell you why we called him “the Romanian”.
He was the only Marcello who sat at our bar. For that matter, quite possibly the only Marcello in Tel Aviv.
And it wasn’t like we had a shortage of Romanians.
Like Sara’s boyfriend, who was just known as The Thug.
Five past seven. Marcello would look at his watch. Swivel around to check the clock. Wipe his eyes. Blow his nose. Announce that it was time to walk the dog.
Everyone would nod politely and say, “Oh? How’s Mickey?” as if they hadn’t asked it yesterday.
And he’d shake my hand, nod at the waitresses, and make his way out.
That was my cue.
Dim the lights. Turn the radio off. Music!
Officially evening. At last.
Afternoon.
Afternoon was for the regulars and drunks (imagine Venn diagram with large center).
Simona would pretend that she’d just happened to be stopping by. Her hands shook so much she had to press them up against the counter to light her cigarette.
We were just hoping she’d get bored and move on after one drink, seeing as how we were the only place in the south of the city she hadn’t been eighty-sixed from yet.
The men at the bar argued and made stupid bets. And argued about making stupid bets and made stupid bets about arguing.
Sometimes side bets would build up on top of the main bets. Betting on the outcome of the bets was everyone’s favorite pastime.
Sometimes it was entertaining. Sometimes hellish.
But you knew if you could just make it until five past seven, everything would change.
Evening.
The grumpy old men would go home to their wives. The cokeheads would take off to the next bar. The cab drivers would head out to their shifts.
And it would turn from a quiet dive bar into an ironic dive bar. University students, hipsters, writers, people who thought it was fun to go to an old-timey hole-in-the-wall with old world food and way too much attitude.
People who actually read the beer list. And asked about the pasta of the day (always the same, but fun to ask).
It was good, mostly.
Evening into night. Sometimes night into morning. Different. But fun.
Unless Dushek was there.
And then you were in trouble.
If Dushek was there, things would get worse after Marcello the Romanian left, not better.
He’d bring friends. They’d drink aquavit. And be rowdy. And break things. You’d think men in their sixties couldn’t cause that much havoc. But you’d be wrong.
And they could go all night.
Dushek hated me only slightly more than I hated him. It brought him pleasure to make me miserable, and it brought me comfort to be obnoxious to him.
He couldn’t be kicked out. Because he had something on the owner, there was no recourse except to keep pointing out how much business he was actively losing us.
And hating him, of course. That took up a lot of my time.
But for some reason, it was the music that got to me.
There were all sorts of things to hate about Dushek:
His smug, self-centered, overbearing, conflict-loving obnoxious way of being in the world.
The way he was always louder than everyone else, no matter how loud it got.
The way he’d take his shirt off after a few drinks.
The ashtrays he’d fill with cigarette butts and pumpkin seeds faster than you could clean them, and always ended up setting the trash can on fire.
How he would just walk behind the bar when he wanted something.
And change the temperature on the thermostat instead of asking the waitress.
And his friends with the grabby arms.
Oh, and the way he’d narrow his eyes and hiss “Go back to where you came from, whore”.
As if I could. As if I was that easy. Believe me, if I could have been anywhere else then, I would have.
I could have put up with all of that. But not the music.
He always wanted to listen to Santana.
Maria Maria.
On repeat.
For hours.
And then the entire album on repeat for hours.
Since he’d already run off the rest of the clientele other than his friends, there wasn’t anyone to object.
After a while I hated that song even more than I hated Dushek.
One day it disappeared.
Well, it didn’t disappear.
Somehow the CD got dropped into a vat. And was then fished out and dropped again. And then broken into several pieces. And possibly also stabbed with a cigarette. A tragedy.
Dushek was too cheap to buy a new one. And eventually he did something to really piss off the owner and he was kicked out.
And I moved to work at another bar, where we had Polish mafia instead of Moroccan mafia (much easier to deal with), and amiable potheads instead of cocaine in the bathroom. And no Dushek.
Now.
There’s this woman who works in the office next to the Playground.
She has a CD player that she keeps outside her office, using our shared hallway as a sort of waiting room for her clients.
Plays the same album all day. On repeat.
At a volume that is just loud enough for me to hear all the time.
No, not Santana. Though yes, that would be hilarious.
It’s the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack. Which I used to love. ln fact, I learned all of Level 3 of Dance of Shiva while listening to that album.
And now I don’t love it anymore.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I never want to hear it again.
Not then. Now.
So it’s been oh, ten years.
Stuff has changed.
I have learned all sorts of things in the meantime about sovereignty and forgiveness and setting boundaries and saying no.
And I still go a little crazy when I hear the same song over and over again.
Obviously I’m not going to drop her music into a vat of anything, though. Instead?
Haven’t decided yet.
Maybe I’ll buy her a new album.
Of something else.
Maybe I’ll play my own music. Maybe I’ll tell her it disturbs my clients.
There are options and choices. Now is not then.
There are peaceful places. Now is not then.
And guess what? At five past seven in the evening she leaves. And it’s over.
Follow
Just makes you think that even the Hard has a clock out time at some point. It can’t stick around all night, eventually it has to go home too.
It’s amazing how much we can develop, change, and build, yet one little song (or any reminder of Yuck) can tweak us into a disco of insanity. That just comes with the whole ‘human territory’ thing. It doesn’t render any and all improvements as null and void; it just reminds us that we’re human and must treat ourselves with gentle, loving care.
These experiences that you are kind enough to share with us makes it so much easier to remember all of that.
P.S. Buy your neighbor another CD. Even if you just leave it anonymously gift-wrapped outside of her door like a baby in a basket, she might just get the hint that just maybe other people are affected by her non-stop music playing.
.-= Kaleena´s last post … Rabbiting =-.
I guess she is not even noticing it. The music.She is just playing something for the people who have to wait and she does not care enough to change it because it is not actually bothering her.
I go with the “Buy her another disk” option and suggest that she changes the music that is played in the hallway regularly.
Maybe buy her an iPod and an iPod dock with speakers and load 3,000 songs onto it and set it to shuffle. Statistically you should never have to hear a song twice in a row ever again! 🙂
My guess is that this woman probably doesn’t know you can hear the music.
I’m always sensitive to whether the other people in my apartment building can hear my music (esp. because I’m making recordings on my kitchen table) and if someone told me it was too loud I would both apologize and thank them for telling me, and then I would do what I could to fix it.
If someone left me a gift-wrapped CD without any prior conversation, I’d feel insulted. If my practicing and recording music is a problem to you, there are ways we can solve this problem together (maybe I play more quietly, maybe if I can’t play more quietly I only play during certain hours, etc. and I learn what you need and you learn what I need). If there is an anonymous “gift,” then we aren’t solving the problem together–you’re telling me how to solve your problem.
Well for one thing, you probably don’t have too many vats at the playground, right? At least, I’m assuming. Since vats and playgrounds don’t go together in my experience. 😉
.-= Amber´s last post … What I’m Thankful For- 2010 Edition =-.
OMG. My dad would only let me play the radio at like, the lowest decibel, barely audibly in the car when taking me to school EXCEPT for when a Santana song would come on, when he would blast the music. So I have always hated Santana. Like enough to proclaim it to people as the only music I actively change the radio station for and simply hate. Feeling for ya.
.-= Megan Lubaszka´s last post … The Label of “Special Ed” =-.
Panama. Van Halen. Really loud. Like they did to Noriega. (I’m just spitballing here.)
If you ever wrote a book about your time in Tel Aviv I would read it. Just fyi.
.-= Justin´s last post … The Wasp and the Window =-.
Beautiful, compelling post.
To me, the chewy kernel on which I’ll meditate for a while today is: Now is not then. So simple — and yet, not easy at all, at least for me.
Now is not then. If something hurt me then, that doesn’t mean it has to hurt me now. If something was impossible for me yesterday, that doesn’t mean I can’t reach for the prize today.
And yet — then matters. My history matters. It’s part of my story. It’s…part of the mix.
I dunno. As I said, I’ll be chewing on this for a while.
In the meantime, I’ll be wishing you safety and peace, surrounded only by sounds that make you happy.
.-= Kathleen Avins´s last post … RE-re-invention =-.
I’m agreeing with Kathleen…
this is one of my muttered mantra’s at work at the moment when Im in the rut rut rut mode. Even if my body, my unconscious are not entirely convinced that this is the whole truth it still gives me some comfort.
So it’s good to hear about your triggers and your past stories and realities. Yay to that and I loved your storytelling here too. So wonderful and cheeky and I’m-right-there with you.
It made me smile and grimace and helped me to remember all the seemingly normal but utterly insane people that I have endured and who have crossed my path.
I guess they seem more likely to appear if you are someone who navigates change, who has straddled many different worlds. borne to grow and discover life from the inside out like you sweetpea.
With thanks and kisses
Leila
.-= Leila Lloyd-Evelyn´s last post … Lifes not perfect =-.
Now is not then. Good to remember, though sometimes now sucks just by being now. Sigh.
I love the idea of the small iPod with a dock and speakers. Or perhaps one of those small burbling fountains, both beautiful and blessedly quiet in its ambiance.
.-= Amy Crook´s last post … Random Recipe- Pancakes =-.
Another vote for explain that you can hear the music really clearly, and unfortunately it disrupts your classes, and it would be a great kindness to turn it down. She may not have the first clue and immediately rectify the problem. Or she might not care and just be obnoxious. At least she gets to make the choice of which way to turn, and you get the options of either making a new friend who may publicise your classes, or standing firm and asserting your boundaries.
And I love this post. It seems to me like one of those slice of life short stories that I love reading. You’re writing a book like that some day, right? She said, hintingly, hopefully. Oh, it’s NaNoWriMo in a couple of weeks! 😉
Ooh, I feel your pain on the repetitive music.
Earplugs helped me get through of two months of wandering through Asia…with my family.
Earplugs and beer. Oh yeah, and meditation 🙂
I wish you luck finding the most wonderful solution, Havi.
x
~ Amy
.-= Amy Martin´s last post … What Agatha Christie Taught Me About Play =-.
Heh. I hear that. I used to work in a kosher deli/coffee shop/something-or-other and the owner had a 5-disc CD changer, and there were only 5 CDs in the whole store.
So now if I ever hear more than three bars of Buena Vista Social Club or Chaim David, I am instantly transported to a world where I’m making stacks of panini sandwiches again.
I like Kaleena’s idea where you leave a new CD wrapped like a baby on the doorstep.
.-= Shannon´s last post … Just One Card- Justice =-.
I used to work at a bookstore that had these special 4 hour repeating mix tapes. The only perk of being stuck at customer service every day was that that’s where the player was. It was the South and our clientele was mostly older folk, so I always got a kick out of playing the improbable techno mix.
Even the stuff I liked did get wearisome though, so I do sympathize.
.-= claire´s last post … Happy National Coming Out Day! or dont let the motherfuckers get you down =-.
Brilliant.
.-= Linda Gabriel´s last post … The Little Voice in Your Head – Friend or Foe =-.
Gotta love this technology.
Just read this great story while sitting in the bathroom at my bank.
Yes, like that.
Anyway, another great story with another great teaching attached.
Thanks.
But, for me the “…learned Level 3 while listening to Buena Vista Social Club.” made me resolve to get on with L3. I’ve been avoiding it while hanging out in my L2 comfort zone.
Thanks for this much-needed kick in my lazy backside!
Namaste! Fred
Robert Palmer and Hot Chocolate on repeat – Summer job in the Isle of Man
Fleetwood Mac – summer job picking tulip bulbs in the north of Holland. It was so flat you had to walk over the horizon to find somewhere to have a pee! AND the boys got paid more than the girls. Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow….
Now is not then…
What work does she do–is she a therapist or someone who wants sound for masking other noise?
What came to my mind as a first active/outward step that I would probably do, is point out to her the difficulty it causes, that it’s _common_ space, that things change (would make a kind of joke here), and I’d invite her to consider a white noise machine.
Or offer to contribute more CDs. The mystery gift of one is a good idea for someone who could handle it. It would freak me out, and my mind would tend to go to mostly negative places.
In my experience, secretive acts tend to backfire, esp. with people who tend towards being defensive anyway. Open, direct, and respectful communication is what I’d want. Some people wouldn’t, though, and I also think subtle wouldn’t either; ambiguous = confusing.
But I also have no problem with conflict. If several conversations with her didn’t help, and talking with the landlord didn’t help, I would start by unplugging it constantly. At that point I would feel that talking alone wasn’t going to help.
I don’t envy you having this tough situation to deal with.
@amber – hilarious. And no, thankfully we have a serious shortage of vats at the Playground. (Note to self: obtain vats.) I giggle every time I think about that.
@Shannon – oh no! And now I really really want a panini sandwich!
@Blue – I totally appreciate what you’re saying about how uncomfortable it would feel to get an anonymous hint.
That *would* be really uncomfortable, and I think I would feel the same way.
And I would like to make it clear that this was not even slightly what I was suggesting. That had not occurred to me and it wasn’t my plan.
Your starting guess that this woman doesn’t know about the noise is not actually what’s going on.
(The building has really bizarre acoustics and we can all hear everything. This is the main topic of conversation among everyone who works there, and she and I have talked about it, usually when she’s banging on my door to complain when WE are playing music super low. That’s just how the building works. Everything you do is audible.
And that is also why she plays the music — so that people outside her office won’t hear what she and her clients are discussing. And if I were to give her new music to play outside in the hallway, this wouldn’t be a random passive-aggressive hint, it would be me telling her what it was.)
I’m feeling a little …. helpless? anxious? when I read your words, because it’s really important to me that my intentions be understood.
This is probably COMPLETELY my stuff — I have this weird thing about people jumping to a conclusion about me having jumped to a conclusion.
I am reminding yourself that what you are *probably* saying is something like THIS:
“I personally would want someone to speak to me about this.”
Which is fine.
And what I’m hearing instead through the filter of my stuff is, “This thing that I’m assuming you might do is really passive-aggressive and not nice, so you shouldn’t do it.”
Anyway, I will work with this some more. What I’m getting from this right now is that I need to do more with acknowledging my intentions and being more specific. And not hiding my point in a post, but just saying what I’m trying to teach (that we encounter the shadow of the past experience in the present one).
Hug.
@Fred – Woooooo! Level 3! Next time I see you we’ll do some Level 4 too. 🙂