A Writer with Noisy Neighbors [74]

I stared at the blank page in front of me. After four hours of torture, I knew I was chasing the horizon - I'd make no progress as long as that no good jackass across the street kept screaming like he'd stuck a cactus up his ass. To be fair (not that I want to be) it wasn't him screaming per se - it was his patients. The nut was a dentist who liked to drill a little too deep or go a little too light on the Novocaine. The only time his clinic wasn't an explosion of screams - and therefore the only time I could consistently write - was on Saturdays. Saturdays were reserved for the clients that kept him in business.

My pen met paper for two words in a row before another screech erupted from the place, breaking my concentration and sending my pen skittering across the page. It was the random timing that was the worst part - anyone can ignore regular phenomena, but the bursts of noise at unknown intervals was torture, plain and simple.

I had to give up. Sure the piece was due tomorrow, but a quick article on beet farming was not going to hold my attention even without the interruptions of my neighbor. Defeated, I closed my first-draft notebook and exhaled with my eyes closed and my palms flat on the desk in front of me for a full ten seconds. My mind was made up and with only two more jump scares I made my way to my local cafe.

Having passed on a sample of the rainbow latte, I found a nice cozy corner to curl up in. The chair was an over-sized red monstrosity, but it was a womb with a view - one could observe the whole shop while sipping their drink.

I began a sip of my own.

"Hi Kent!" a spill-inducing voice pealed out from behind me.

How the fuck did that jackass even get there??