Despite the cool night air, The Man Who Shouts at Doors is back. I can hear him through the double glazing. He’s having an argument. It sounds one-sided.
Well, that’s to be expected — doors don’t usually talk. But on occasion he accosts a passer-by, some of whom ignore him, whilst others laugh nervously and make “I’m not stopping” smalltalk.
Thing is, neither is he. I’ve seen him walk down the street a ways, deep in unilateral conversation until — click — he stops and wanders back. His chosen door has a hold on him that borders on the arcane.
He’s laughing now, a mad cackle you might expect of a chain-smoking warlock. It booms down the byways. It’s actually so loud I’ve seen neighbours leave their buildings to confront him on it. This goes as well as might be expected.
Joinery, locks, handles, glass — the insights of doors and their retainers is near-endless. And joy. Have you ever shouted at a door? Your words are blunted, nay coddled. The door says, “Give me more” and you know what? The Man Who Shouts obliges.
He turned up with a car once. (Five doors — paradise.) Late in the night he decided to throw a party-for-one and pump out some bassy techno. I, and many others, twitched our curtains in consternation. Some even took to their balconies. The horror! Who was this kerbside DJ?
A door opened farther down the street and a man stepped out. Suddenly all eyes were on him. Where was he going? Left — into danger — or right? Left! The tension was palpable. We watched him walk purposefully to the portal hollerer. I considered running to the kitchen for snacks but didn’t want to miss the action.(*)
There was shouting. There was calm but assertive address. There was a — brief — cessation of music. This meant two things: 1) We might get a peaceful night’s sleep, and 2) we could now hear what was being said.
It went something like this:
VERNUNFT: I have a 2-year-old daughter. She’s trying to sleep.
TMWSAD: AND?
VERNUNFT: Your music keeps waking her up.
TMWSAD: IT’S GOOD MUSIC!
VERNUNFT: There are lots of children in this street. It’s unfair to wake them.
TMWSAD: MAYBE THEY WANT TO LISTEN TO THIS BAND.
VERNUNFT: Maybe they don’t.
Somewhat miraculously, The Man Who Shouts did turn it off. The Voice of Reason walked back a hero. Soon, The Man Who Shouts returned to his hardwood soliloquy, but we, the street, were content to settle for several tens of decibels less noise.
Right now, the man is laughing. I still can’t hear an interlocutor, organic or otherwise. If I’m really lucky, I’ll see him take his shoes off and dance in the road in his underpants, but that half-cocked gyration seems reserved for moonlit nights (of which this isn’t).
I’d settle for understanding even half the words he shouts.
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(*) If you ever visit and wonder why there are little bags of nuts in every room, this is why.
