Above it all

I have a history of living above insane things. Not above, as in, "I am above that", but literally residing above things that are insane. When I moved to my second apartment in Massachusetts, I realized soon after moving in that it was above a hispanic pentacostal storefront church.

Right now, my office is above a russian adult day care facility.

Russian. Adult. Daycare. Facility.

I'm not joking. Every day, vans of elderly russian people in their faux fur hats and year-round sparkle sweaters are carted into my office parking lot, and they spend their days downstairs, listening to music at a cringe inducing volume, doing chair jazzersize, and-- when it doesn't rain, they aimlessly wander the parking lot, dragging metal folding chairs out and sitting in the only open spaces to soak up the sun. Occasionally they will use the hood or trunk of someones car as a table on which to fill out word puzzles (where does one get russian word puzzles??).

Today there is karaoke downstairs. Karaoke, at the russian adult daycare facility. The floor is vibrating beneath my feet. I am watching the tissue box on my desk slowly move toward the stapler. I cannot think. My head is pounding in time with the bass. They are singing in russian. They just finished "besame mucho" in russian. I want to hurt someone.

Ahh, the emcee has just come back on, and I can only pray that karaoke is done and it is now naptime. The worst thing about it is that when I was first hired, I thought the elderly people were kind of sweet, wandering in the parking lot together, little old ladies with their arms hooked through each others, not afraid to show affection and remembering a time when they didn't live in this place. I hoped they were happy, in their folding chairs. I smiled at them as I walked back toward the building from lunch. I said hello.

But the truth is, they aren't sweet. They are mean, and suspicious, always so suspicious. I have driven the same car and parked in this lot for nearly two years, and still they skuttle away from me like nervous old cats as I walk toward my office, thinking, what, that I'm going to steal their 26 pound silver purse and take all the used tissues out? They mutter at me in Russian, even as I smile and say hello. They touch my car. They put their chairs in the good spots in the parking lot, and I have to park over under the trees that the spiders live in.

So I hate the old russian people. I hate their purses, I hate their sweaters, and I hate their music. If the karaoke doesn't stop soon, I am calling the police. And then I will be the person who called the police on the russian adult daycare center. And this is why I drink on Tuesdays.