It is noonish on Saturday, January 10, 2015. Rest assured Big Al is in the house.

 Stuck in the house. Cold out. Near zero. Streets and sidewalks slick. Wind chill advisories here daily. Last time to YMCA on Tuesday, January 6. Wow, only 4 days but it seems like eternity. Stiff from no exercise.

The good weather held until K & D got out of town and, to bastardize a phrase,  apres qui le deluge.  Of cold. I made it to the Y on Tuesday notwithstanding the snow. Carefully.  Surrendered willingly on Wednesday, stayed cosy and loafed and read. 

Thursday, tried again. Rocked car to escape curbside ice piles left by street scrapers.  On street, the transmission kept shifting from D to N when I accelerated. I held it by hand in D long enough to circle the block and re-park in the same icy spot. I feared getting stranded in the middle of a street if I continued. Or damaging the car. 

So I am staying in for the duration. The duration of what? I don't know. The cold, I think, unless we get more snow. I ordered groceries from Peapod, which delivers. For a fee of course, but well worth it. It promises to rise  to 32 F tomorrow and I will try the car again. I hope the cold was the problem. If the car is kaput, I'll deal later.

Cabin fever is forestalled by the entertainment outside my door.  When the bars close, evidently at 3 AM., someone comes home drunk and there are screaming arguments in the hall. Night before last it was a female who lives upstairs and her 'best friend' a male who lives elsewhere. She, a trim, young, attractive and youthfully dressed--skimpy tops, snug pants, knee high boots. He, bulky, paunchy, country bumpkin, ball-cap-wearing with greasy long hair.

He was trying to go home and had made it almost to the front door. She wanted--insisted in a demand that rang chillingly up and down the hallways and staircases--that he come back upstairs with her and fxxx her. In fact her every other word was fxxx in some form. In between demands she kicked the door to the foyer with her foot. Linda , who was able to watch the whole performance from the peephole in her door, told me this later. From my bed, I thought the girl was slamming large heavy objects down the stairs. The female was guarding the door so the male could not escape. Reminds me of spider love.

The dialog was less than scintillating.  

"I have a girlfriend."  mumbled.

"I told you 2 weeks ago, I have a boyfriend too." informing the building voice.

"I brought you into my apartment thinking we could xxxx." indignation. 

 You'll always be my best friend." placating mumble.

In this vein, on and on, over an hour, ending with her throwing herself bodily onto him and draping herself around him and slobbering on his face, neck, head, whatever she could reach.  

In the midst of this the guy across the hall went out and murmured to them something I couldn't hear. They quieted down for about 2 minutes, then continued unabated. 

Eventually the guy escaped into the cold.

And we, all snug in our beds, gave a sigh of relief, and slept. 

Well, actually, I read for a while, but that sort of ruins the poetry of the last line.

And if all else fails, I could force myself to write.

Reading this over I realize if someone else described to me their life, including this tale, I'd feel sorry for them and want them to move somewhere more peaceful. But it is not in the least demoralizing. Linda says, this is like college dorm life. She went to Purdue in the 70s and perhaps it is. I hope not. It's not what I imagined college dorm life to be like, but maybe. To me it is just cartoonish, drunken, psuedo-love in the city. It doesn't seem like real grown-up life. And, I, I guess, have become hardened and find it  entertaining. When I was a kid, hearing grown-ups carry on like this scared me, but I'm safe now.