Why I Am Tired

Everyone who’s lived for a while in a big city has an isotope of this anecdote. Wendy has just dumped her boyfriend, Jake. Yeah, he was an asshole (and still is), but she probably shouldn’t have broken up with him by standing him up for dinner and leaving a message on his answering machine while she knew he’d be out waiting for her at the restaurant. That’s just sinking to his level of mind games.

Well, now Jake is roaring drunk and vacillating between righteous fury and pitiful pleading. And he’s doing it at 2 AM from the street beneath her window. She took her phone off the hook a while ago, but now Jake has a better idea. He’s leaning against her buzzer, figuring that the incessant buzz will sooner or later cause her to relent and let him in. Actually, she’s going to call the police on his sorry stalker ass, but that’s still an hour away, and in the meantime, Wendy’s next-door neighbor is wondering what the hell is up with that incessant buzzing.

That’s what happened last night in my apartment complex last night, only in reverse, and without the dramatic backstory. The buzzer at the door itself—the sound it makes when you buzz someone in—had been buzzing for a couple hours when I started trying to get some sleep. As best I can guess, someone left something leaning up against their intercom buttons. Someone on the wrong side of the building to hear the door buzzer, that is. Unlike me, with a window a floor up but otherwise right next to the door.

And that’s why I’m tired.