By: Daniel Kool

“Usually he just stomps around all night in those lead-soled boots,” Lukas Sawyer (726 Comm) told me. His eyes were tired after a semester and a half of sonic chaos.

“Sometimes he screams when he does it, but never like he’s actually trying to say anything.” Sawyer himself nearly had to shout over the clunk-clunk-clunking echoing through the small apartment.

We were interrupted by the reason he’d called me out that night. I heard it scraping across the ceiling, cutting into the floorboards, the ceiling seemed to droop under its weight. It must have been a full pallet of grade-A Heavy Shit.

Sawyer said the guy gets two of these a week — always at high midnight.

For a moment it went silent up there. Then, something began to spill out. It sounded sharp, like coarse gravel or spilling legos. But it seemed to flow like running water — no, it was too thick to be water, wasn’t it? Sawyer stuck his tongue out to feel for drips; nothing came but more noise.

The sound, the sound, it was like every construction site, car crash, and Marsh Plaza pep-band performance all at once. It overwhelmed me. Sawyer was crying.

By the time it ended, my watch read 3:30 a.m. It had only felt like a few minutes.

“See what I mean? Every night with the noise,” Sawyer said. “Anyway, I should probably get to sleep. I’m freezing cold and my body aches all over. You know how it goes.”

AT PRESS TIME: Sawyer’s apartment was found to be on the top floor, although a man-sized crawlspace exists between his ceiling and the roof.

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