Planning to go to bed early because you have to get up at seven in the morning is like telling a robber you aren’tgoing to lock your doors at night; things are bound to go wrong. Many students here are Seton Hill University experience what I like to call �Inconsiderate Neighbor Syndrome.� This is my story.
It all started one Friday night like something out of a Poe story… I had just crawled into bed, ready to drift off into a dream state that’s nothing like the movie �Waking Life,� when suddenly the thumping began. The guy living above me had started dribbling a piece of sports equipment in his room. Now, if you�ve ever seen the size of any of the dorm rooms on campus, you have to wonder what the effectiveness of this could be. Perhaps coaches want their athletes to be able to handle the ball in the most cramped, awkward situations possible.
By Mike Rubino,
Cartoonist/Illustrator
Planning to go to bed early because you have to get up at seven in the morning is like telling a robber you aren’tgoing to lock your doors at night; things are bound to go wrong. Many students here are Seton Hill University experience what I like to call �Inconsiderate Neighbor Syndrome.� This is my story.
It all started one Friday night like something out of a Poe story… I had just crawled into bed, ready to drift off into a dream state that’s nothing like the movie �Waking Life,� when suddenly the thumping began. The guy living above me had started dribbling a piece of sports equipment in his room. Now, if you�ve ever seen the size of any of the dorm rooms on campus, you have to wonder what the effectiveness of this could be. Perhaps coaches want their athletes to be able to handle the ball in the most cramped, awkward situations possible.
I lay there thinking to myself, �He can’tdribble forever.�
That’s when whoever it was above me decided to turn on the music. This is never a good sign, because unlike dribbling a ball, music doesn’tstop if you get tired. I just had to hope that he didn’tfall asleep and leave his stereo on �Repeat Loudly.� Then, in a fashion similar to Pachelbel’s Canon in D, the obnoxious sounds from above built on to one another. The music, which is always some brand of awful R&B filled with copious amounts of moaning and bass, went along nicely to the dribbling of the ball. This gave way to the low roar of jovial men. They were laughing, yelling, and creating the general sound of hoopla. And just as the canon was about to crescendo, the jaunty men began singing along with the song. That’s right, folks, it was a sing-along.
The first feeling that sweeps over your body when encountering something like this is that euphoric sense of anxiety. I wish anxiety could just rock me to sleep lovingly, but alas, all it does is make me toss and turn. Should I take out a book and read? Or do I just wait this thing out? I had to get to sleep; I now had less than five hours left! And so I clamped a stuffed alligator onto the side of my head and begged the Lord for a rag soaked in ether.
In situations like this, there is a part of us that thinks we can take matters into our own hands. Perhaps I could march outside with a boom box and stand by their window, a la �Say Anything� (the only difference being that I�m not trying to woo anyone.) Every year I get a room directly below someone who needs to bounce a ball at strange hours of the day. Didn’twe make a new sports complex for that sort of debauchery?
And why does every ball-bouncing session turn into a dance party? I remember last year, my roommate and I banging on the ceiling with a broomstick, which did nothing but shower us with little white speckles of plaster.
All of the residents on campus agree to obey the quiet hours… but maybe we need to get that in writing. Then again, maybe we also need to establish the hours where people should practice common courtesy.
To view all articles by this writer Click here.