Once upon a time a little duck lived in a suburban apartment. The apartment above was very noisy. There was banging and clanging at all hours of the day and night. At first the duck found it annoying but eventually, he grew used to the constant din. In fact, he grew so accustomed to the noise that one day, when it fell inexplicably silent, he became concerned. He worried something untimely might have happened to his neighbour so he set out into the world to find the source of all the clatter. He was going to find his neighbours.
So he waddled and waddled and waddled and waddled. He waddled until he encountered a drum line. There was thumping and rat-a-tatting and constant pounding. It sounded very much like his apartment at 10:30pm on a Tuesday thanks to the people upstairs, his missing neighbours. He cleared his throat and asked:
They stopped their rat-a-tatting a moment and laughed.
We are not your neighbours. We are a drum line!
Dejected, the little duckling kept waddling. He waddled and waddled and waddled and waddled until he came upon a group of Irish clog dancers. They clipped and they clopped and their furious feet sounded like thunder. The heaviness of their steps reminded him of what it sounds like around 8pm on a Wednesday in his little suburban apartment. So once again he cleared his throat and he asked them:
They stopped their thumping for a moment and laughed and laughed. They told the little duck:
We are not your neighbours. We are an Irish Clog Dancing group!
Dejected, the duckling continued on waddling. He waddled and waddled and waddled and waddled. He waddled until he came upon a man with a chainsaw. He was cutting down trees and brush with a whizz and a whirr. It sounded almost like a Thursday afternoon in his little suburban apartment, when the sawing sounds were overwhelming. He cleared his throat and shouted because the man had ear protection on.
The man stopped what he was doing and laughed and laughed. He leaned down to the duckling and said very loudly:
I am not your neighbour. I am an arborist.
Further depressed, the duckling continued on. He waddled into a coffee shop and sat down on a stool. He rested his head on the table, feeling sorry for himself. A man in a checkered shirt, a scarf and a tuque (even though it wasn’t cool yet) looked up from his coffee and asked the duck what was wrong.
I am looking for my neighbour. It is too quiet and I am worried something might have happened to whatever lives upstairs. I asked the rat-a-tatting drum line and they are not my neighbours. I asked the clip clopping clog dancers and they were not my neighbours. I asked the whiz-whirring arborist with the chain saw and he is not my neighbour. I’m worried I will never find my neighbour.
The man looked at the little duckling and laughed.
Are you the duckling who lives in the ground floor apartment down the road?
The duckling nodded.
I am a hipster who likes to make old fashioned wooden furniture so I’m always sawing and hammering things. When I’m not making end tables, I’m entertaining my friends who are tap dancers. Sometimes we play the bongos to get more in tune with our primal sides. I had no idea it was so loud for you downstairs. I am sorry! I am not missing, I just ran out of espresso and had to buy myself a latte. I will be home soon and will try to be quiet.
The little duckling let out a sigh of relief and waddled on home. His neighbour was not missing, he was just thirsty. His neighbour was not part of a drum line, nor was he part of an Irish clog dancing troop, nor was he an arborist. He was just a bongo loving, tap dancing, furniture making hipster, and that’s what you get when you live in the suburbs, he guessed.
but not of all the noise. #Condoliving