Grading Blitz

It is 10:38 central time and I have just finished a whole-hog D-day sort of grading sweep. There's just a bit more to do for tomorrow, but, then again, D-day didn't win WW2 though it sure as hell moved the most significant pawn forward. As of now, some student revisions and one more batch of craft analysis papers are my Berlin. They are Hitler hiding out in his bunker realizing the empire's fall. I am both Eisenhower and Patton peering through binoculars as the Brits and fellow Americans conduct air raids. I am also Stalin retreating further into Russia so winter can become my most valued military weapon. I am also the American Pacific fleet nearing Japanese harbors with thousands of troops on board, hundreds of aircraft carriers in tow, and two very large bombs that will change the course of human history forever.

I don't know if I'll ever understand why I feel as if I have done something heroic upon grading a shit-ton of papers in one evening. I mean, I am the one whole let the back-log get even more back-logged, which always happens. Most of semesters I like to pretend that the papers I haven't graded don't really exist. Then the stack grows and sometimes turns a little yellow with cigarette smoke and a little dusty from a smokey apartment and there's always at least one paper that ears a coffee mug halo or some random food splatter of which pasta sauce is responsible for. In terms of military reference I guess I could equate that fact that I choose to forget about these papers, choose to ignore this papers, choose say, "No, sir. Not today," is the same as the American general public considering WW2 "Europe's problem" until the attack on Pearl Harbor. I myself created my own "grading Pearl Harbor" by ignoring the fact that these papers existed, by ignoring the fact that they needed grading. Then I saw that stack sitting there. They all begged to be graded at once, so I sat my jolly ass down at got to work on them despite the fact that my crack-head neighbors downstairs were yelling at each other and the toothless woman was rambling on and on in gum-talk.

Yes, at this very moment I am sitting on a thrown of victory smoking a cigarette and sipping a Miller Lite reward and still listening to gum-talk drift up through the vents. Saturday is usually a calm night in lower-crackhead-land. Tonight is a little different. Sunday is usually the worst, the night when I ended up calling the cops or somebody else calls the cops because glass is breaking or there's gum-screaming or pots and pans are crashing against cinder block walls or doors are slamming. Tonight, there is gum-wakka and more gum-wakka and despite the fact that the woman is toothless she is very capable of yelling the phrase, "I don fuuuckin care 'bout dat," which is exactly what I think about the existence of those people as my neighbors.

After spending years as a bartender and time as a night-shift one man army at a motel where nothing good ever happened after three in the morning, I know some moves about dealing with fuck-wads. I have developed this skills. The primary skill is always remaining calm. An enraged person always fears a calm person because being calm means you have a good idea how this is going to end in your favor, and, ultimately, it shows confidence that you know something the other side doesn't know. I learned that by bartending. When bartending, I saw plenty of fights break out and there were times when the fight seemed like it would filter its way behind the bar. This is when you shake your head and look people in the eye. This makes them sure you have a gun or a baseball bat or that you are just a flat-out crazy person who might have a gun and a baseball bat and an army of regulars who have guns in their cars or baseball bats in their care if not that, every car has a tire iron.

The first time I met my downstairs neighbors I was wearing a plaid robe and my hair was down. I'd been trying to sleep, but the gum-yelling was rediculously loud. I grabbed my walking stick and walked down to their apartment door and knocked with the walking stick. I consider this my caveman approach.

"What's up, brother," the head of house crackhead said.
"What's goin' on down here?" I asked while holding the walking stick like a baseball bat.
"Whoa, man. No need for any of that."
"You better straighten your shit out in there or I'll come back down and straighten it out myself. I work tomorrow. I need my sleep. Shut that woman of yours up."

I walked away as the guy apologized. I didn't really give a fuck about him or anything other than sleep. I laid down and the gum-yelling got worse, so I called the cops.

The next night, a Sunday, the gum-yelling was worse than usual, something I considered as a pissing contest between toothless woman and me. I called the cops again.

Despite the cops coming two nights in a row, the rediculous noise and shouting persisted on Monday. More cops.

Then silence.

And more silence.

I was sure the fines from the apartment complex for everytime the police visit a unit were setting in.

Sunday came and there was a new voice in the downstairs apartment. It was gruff and male and loud. The cracked-out head of house said, "Keep it down, man. The dude upstair is gonna freak."
"Fuck that guy," the new voice said.
Gum-woman said slurred something with the word fuck in it too.
I laid in bed thinking "Whatever."

I tried to put myself to sleep until the new voice started yelling and gum-woman was yelling too. The crack-head of house said, "He's gonna call'em. I ain't paying this time."
"Screw that fucker," new voice said.
"Naaawww. He's just tryin' to sleep."
"Fuck that guy," new voice said.

The downstairs apartment door slammed as feet pounded up the stairs. I laid in bed shaking my head. I like to sleep naked because that is comfortable. I laid there naked shaking my head until there was a pound on my door. This is stupid, I thought. Good thing the cops have taken care of this, I thought. I figured, "Just stay put. Stay in bed."

The pounding persisted and new voice said, "This loud enough."

I got out of bed naked and lit a cigarette in my bed room. New-voice kept pounding as I took some drags.

My hair was down because I try not to sleep with my hair in a bun. In that moment I figured I could call the cops and put up with more of the same or clearly communicate that I, without help from the police could handle a mother fucker like New-Voice.

I answered the door completely naked with a .38 revolver in my hand and said to New-Voice, "The fuck you want?" in a really hick tone. He looked horrified and scared that here was a small guy with a cold, shriveld cock holding a big-ass gun. He didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, so I said, "Well?"

He turned his eyes to the ground and walked straight out of the building and I haven't heard that voice since.

Sometimes I think I should walk down to my neighbor's place naked holding a .38 just to keep their traps shut.