I don’t live that far above Hell. If I’m not careful and I actually have to make a trip below, I may come across one or two of its residents — a little grubby, maybe reeking of smoke, and quite probably yelling at the little yapping creatures they call dogs.

Even though each apartment in the complex has two bedrooms or less, they always seem to have an endless supply of people downstairs. I have no idea if they’re at all related by blood or by marriage, and I can’t imagine where all of them sleep. While people come and go, it always seems to be the same family; the godawful-ugly patio furniture never moves, so it must be so.

Over the years, the screams from Hell have gotten familiar. It cycles, actually. They used to have a kid down there who apparently was the devil’s son himself because his mother would spend all day yelling his name in outrage. “Get over here! You stop that right now!” Either he grew up or he got kicked out because I never hear his name being called any more. Now they have a teenager who smokes cigarettes right underneath my open window; he may or may not be the same kid, but I doubt it. There are too many other changes related to Hell; for one thing, I never see the mother any more.

They still yell at the dogs though. These dogs are awful little creatures, the kind who overcompensate for their size and bark all day at you, even if they know who you are and that you mean them no harm. These demon spawn have been there forever. They used to jump and scratch at the screen every time anyone passed by to go upstairs, and the barking would simply drive you mad. Worse, the people would add to the noise and start yelling at their dogs to “Shut the hell up!” As if that would work. Occasionally, you’d hear something being thrown at the dogs, and a high-pitched squeal would end the barking momentarily.

I shudder to think about the conditions downstairs — especially the fleas. A while back, the building had a problem with mice. We live right next to a vacant field, so we get critters every now and then among the shrubbery and in the parking lot. Apparently, there were a few holes in the building that the management didn’t close off properly after doing some maintenance work, so those resourceful little field mice decided to carry the vermin from downstairs to my own little abode. My cat, who has never even been outside and so had never had a problem with fleas, suddenly became a home to those pesky little parasites. Now that the holes are plugged up and I’m taking steps to get rid of the fleas, the problem is much easier to manage — but with two or three dogs and a negligent group of people downstairs, I can’t imagine how much worse it is in Hell.

Oh, and here’s the worst of it all: every now and then, the people downstairs attempt to barbecue their dinner — only they put more lighter fluid on the charcoal than they need to. Mmm… tasty. My open window is right above their patio, so I’m always treated to the worst of the fumes from their grill. I have had to close my window, despite the stifling heat, just to keep from choking on the awful smell.

*Sigh*

I can’t wait to move. Anywhere away from Hell would be just fine.

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