Gangs of green-clad drunken twentysomethings swarmed the north side today.
Now I understand why St. Patrick's Day rarely falls on the weekend.
But the festivities began long ago.
Last night I was awakened at 2:30am. The building was shaking. Doors were slamming. People in the courtyard were yelling.
I ignored it at first. But since I was up I ate some watermelon and read a mildly amusing essay by Illeana Douglas.
But the noise only got worse; every minute or so the neighbor's back door would slam and someone would stomp down two flights of wooden stairs.
I finally crept outside and peered over the railing.
Below me was an inebriated, keg-shaped gent with a green plastic derby perched atop his fat head.
I overcame the urge to throw dirty cat litter on him.
I slammed my back door, hard.
But the noise continued.
At 3:30AM I slammed the desk chair into the floor, hard.
The hubbub subsided for two seconds, and then resumed.
I crept into the front hall and listened; the only voices coming from the neighbor's door were male.
Apparently this was some sort of pre-St. Patrick's Day stag party.
I tried again to sleep. No luck. (I'm not even remotely Irish).
So I did the thing I never thought I would do.
I called the police. The Man.
It felt good to share my frustration with someone, anyone -- even if it was a stuttering dispatcher who didn't give a rat's ass about me.
I don't know if The Fuzz ever came.
Just in case they didn't, I rang the guy's buzzer -- hard -- when I left for class this morning.
Happy St. Paddy's Day indeed