I live beneath a troupe of tiny Tiny Tim impersonators. It’s hell. I never sleep. I have developed a deep, deep hatred for the ukulele, or more specifically for the sound of 10 ukuleles playing in (almost) unison. They say that bagpipes were invented as an instrument of war, and I think I now know the truth about ukuleles, too. If there were ukuleles in ancient China, we wouldn’t be speaking of Chinese Water Torture.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s easy to do, you know, because you usually know the whole story while your audience is in the dark, and if you leave them there, they’ll just start assuming thing about you and your situation and asking questions like “Why did you move in under a troupe of tiny Tiny Tim impersonators?” or “Why don’t you just move out?”
If only it were that simple. If only…
But let’s not talk about Tiny Tim or his tiny impersonators. I have to deal with that myself. Fight my own battles. Slay my own dragons. Smash my own ukuleles. You would think it would be easy to wrestle a ukulele from somebody half your size, but this is underestimating the tenacity of the soul aroused, especially when the soul belongs to Hugo.
Hugo and I were friends at the beginning, a brief honeymoon period that occupied the time just after Hugo moved in upstairs, and just before the commencement of the first rehearsal of the tiny Tiny Tim Club, as I’ve come to call him. This time period was approximately 15 minutes. Our friendship consisted of five distinct spoken phrases, which I will transcribe here:
Me: Hi there.
Hugo: Hi.
Me: Is that a mandolin?
Hugo: No, it’s a ukulele.
Me: Oh.
Seems innocent enough. But looking back on it, I should have picked up the signs, should have read between the lines and seen what was coming. All the clues were there and I was left standing there like a pig in a sandbox (the old joke).
First clue: the ukulele. I mean, please.
Second clue: the life size (or for Hugo, double life size) poster of Tiny Tim.
Third clue: the nine similarly small men, each dressed like Tiny Tim who followed Hugo up the stairs. James, Bob, Bob, Bacchus, Bob, James, Thor, O, and Bob (in that order).
The music began soon after that, starting as a single ukulele and building until I though it could build no more. And then the singing started. And it hasn’t stopped for near 4 hours. Over and over again. My repeated pounding on the ceiling with a broom had no effect whatsoever, nor did knocks on the second floor door. Nor did the three shots I fired through the ceiling. I fear I am going to have to take extreme measures, soon, but I’m holding out as long as possible.
This story doesn’t have to have a sad ending. It really doesn’t. I’m a reasonable man, willing to listen, willing to compromise. Maybe they can practice during the day when I’m at work. Or maybe they can move out. Probably the latter would be best. For all of us. Me, Hugo, James, Bob, Bob, Bacchus, Bob, James, Thor, O, and Bob. One big happy friggin’ family. One man, ten tiny Tiny Tims, and ten ukuleles.
jbg