Late last night, I awoke to the distressing sound that has haunted our apartment at least once a night for the past two weeks. It was the sound of a man moaning in pain, both physical and mental, for minutes on end. It came from the apartment above us, and is not the type of sound you want to wake up to. When we first heard it about two weeks ago, my first thought was someone was vomitting after a particularly harsh night out drinking (think the sounds I made after the 12 tequila shots I consumed at the Acapulco restaurant in Santa Clara, when Hector, Slaven, and I got in our first, and last, drinking contest). It had that same guttural, uncontrollable waterfall of air heard when a poison is being furiously denied by the stomach. But after awhile, it became more of a moan, as if a ghost from a "Scooby Doo" episode was clumsily trying to scare us from outside our dark bedroom window. The moan was tinged with a hint of sadness, and expressed the type of pain that I don't think i've ever felt before.
Jill wanted to call the ambulance - she thought someone was dying. I demurred. If someone was indeed sick, perhaps with cancer, the last thing that person needed was the police knocking on their door in the middle of the night as a reminder to their awful situation. Or even worse, I thought, what if this guy was some pervert getting his balls stomped on by a mistress he hired every night? I wanted no part of that (well, maybe just a little), so the sound continued. Each morning, I resolved to talk to my landlord about it, but upon arriving at work, the stresses of a common day (surfing ESPN, eating lunch, writing blogs) soon overcame any thoughts I had about the night before.
This past Friday night was particularly ghastly. The moans went unabatted for several minutes on four different occasions, and sounded more like cries than they had in the past. The moans were followed by the sound of furniture crashing on the floor above us. I woke up on Saturday determined to figure out what the hell was going on. I didn't need to walk any further than my own door to get the answer.
As I walked out my door that morning, an elegant, well-dressed, older man passed me on his way down the carpeted stairs. He stopped half-way, paused, and began walking back up towards me. He smiled and introduced himself as Rudy. Rudy has lived on the fifth-floor (two floors above me) for over ten years. He politely asked if I've been hearing the sounds coming from the apartment directly above mine. I nodded. Rudy apologized, and proceeded to tell me the following story:
The man above us, in apartment 4R, has lived in our building for twenty-five years. He is a fifty-seven years-old diabetic. Sometime in the past few months he decided he wanted to start killing himself. He shut off his phone, bought a bunch of alcohol, and is basically drinking himself to death, exactly like Nicolas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas". As a diabetic, Rudy explained, the sound we are hearing is his body totally reject all the alcohol. We are also hearing the sound of a man with an intolerable amount of mental anguish. Once a successful professional, he now has no family, no friends, and lives with his mother's ashes. Rudy, having lived in the building long enough to know the guy, says he has been to his apartment twice to offer help. In the apartment are piles empty liquor bottles scattered everywhere. When drunk, the man breaks his furniture, which is the crashing I hear at night. The apartment is a total wreck, as is the man. People in the apartment have twice called the paramedics, when the moans have become overwhelming. They come and take the man away, and a week later, he leaves rehab, comes back, and starts drinking again, and tells those in the apartment to mind their own fucking business. His mind is slowly giving away, Rudy says, and there is a good chance he will be dead soon, as the man's body has literally reached critical mass. Rudy wanted me to be aware of this, as we live directly below him. What could I do, I asked? Just keep an open ear, he responded. Any attempts to confront or help this man have concluded with an abusive, angry tirade from the man. He doesn't want help, and, in his own words, "just wants to be left the fuck alone."
Well, that shouldn't be a problem. I was never planning on going up there to preach to him the virtues of healthy living. Besides, if I went up there, and saw all that alcohol, there's a good chance i'd stay awhile, then emerge drunk a few days later telling everyone "that guy is actually pretty cool, you all just need to relax." In reality, I'm not sure I am equipped to handle a man that has that much pain. If a man wants to drink himself to death, I guess he has the right to do it.
I thanked Rudy for the information, gave this necessary somberness over the situation, and went out to get lunch. Later that night, while watching TV with a glass of scotch, I heard the man begin his moans. I went still for a moment, before being overwhelmed by a sense of huge relief: All my life, I've always thought I knew what real pain was. But it is now very clear to me that I do not. And, as his cries filtered through my open window, I was never more relieved to be me, and not anyone else.