Static

It's closing in on 3:00 a.m. and it's deliciously quiet in my apartment. It's the kind of silence I spend all day waiting for. My upstairs neighbors are 20-something boys with no apparent regard for anyone else in the house. Their greatest hits include pounding up and down the stairs repeatedly within minutes and slamming our shared doors until I frustrate myself into a bad headache. I've lived in this apartment for almost eight years and been downstairs from party people who always had friends over, the ever-humping couple who must have been making amateur porn, and these hipster idiots who literally have to be told to stop tap dancing because it sounds like elephants are trying to crash through my ceiling. I'm looking forward to moving, a process which is finally in progress. I just have to save a few, uh, thousand dollars and find a new place. No bigs.

Earlier, the boys were being extra stompy and instead of giving myself a migraine, I just left. I had to buy food for the cats anyway, so I zipped to the store and then spent time driving around the city. I had no destination in mind, which is how I found myself cleaning out the front seat while I filled up the car, dropping off some recycling, grabbing a coffee, touring Fountain Square, and eventually cruising up I-69 towards Fishers and Noblesville. Even though I didn't want to stop driving, several things brought me home. I had no trip in mind, nowhere to spend the night, the cats needed to eat, and the coffee I'd sucked down would soon be treating my hamster bladder like a pay-by-the-hour hotel. Instead of thinking about abandoned pets and all the stuff I'd left behind, I just kept thinking I don't have my toothbrush.

I first felt the urge to keep going when I was finally able to drive 70 mph. I was on Binford right before it becomes 69 and a little spazzy seeing all the traffic coming off 465. I got in the right lane to exit at 82nd Street, thinking I'd amble through Castleton and then head home, but I didn't change my pace. I passed 96th Street, intent on exiting at 116th, but I didn't get over in time and really couldn't without cutting someone off. I saw the road signs telling me Ft. Wayne was only another 100 miles north. By the time I exited near Klipsch Music Center Deer Creek, I'd been driving for 90 minutes and only turned around because I had to come home eventually.

Heading back towards the city, I thought about my low-light apartment and the surplus of things I've collected in eight years that need to be tossed, donated, or packed. I get overwhelmed easily thinking of everything I need to tackle before I can hand over the keys, which is one of the reasons I've been here so long. I make the best plans at night about how productive I'm going to be the next day, but that magic dissipates when I sleep. Maybe I'm just delusional in the middle of the night. I feel rational. But I'm also surrounded by furniture I no longer want, a burgeoning recycling collection, and DVDs and CDs I should probably just pitch. Start over. Start fresh. When's the last time I listened to a CD outside of the car anyway?

In my next apartment, there will be no upstairs neighbors. I'll have a washer and dryer on the same level where I sleep. Ideally there will be a garden tub so I can resume buying fuzzy soaps and bath bombs. I won't have to share an entrance, any appliances, or the porch/balcony. The city will acknowledge my neighborhood and offer recycling pickup. The light will be better, the landlord/lady will be kind, and I'll have a nice view. It's all going to happen and within the next six months. I don't want to live here even one more day, but at least I can get on the interstate and feel myself moving even when things are otherwise static.