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began barkingdirectly into my ear. It was truly the most annoying sound I had ever heard. I had a violent vision of swiftly grabbing Penny by the collar and, with the ease of Chuck Norris (but without the homophobia), snapping her bony poodle neck. But I had committed myself to this position and believed I still had a chance to stay invisible to Tania.
    “Charlie? Is that you down there?”
    “Huh? What?” I didn’t quite know how else to respond.
    “What are you doing? Are you hiding from me?” Tania asked.
    “What? No. I was just—ducking and covering—from the earthquake.”
    “Umm, what earthquake?” She was onto me.
    “You didn’t just feel that tremor?”
    “No.”
    “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it! You should probably go back inside your apartment and check the news for updates. Inside your apartment. The news. Inside.”
    “I didn’t feel anything. Neither did Penny. So, where’s our little Romeo?” Tania asked in a cutesy way that made me want to vomit.
    “Oh, Marvin? The poor little guy is feeling under the weather. He’s been resting.”
    “Aww, sweet sweet Marv. Well, I know what he needs.”
    “Yeah, rest,” I reiterated.
    “Nope. He needs the warmth of his lover.”
    “I’m pretty sure he just needs to rest.”
    But I was too late. Tania headed toward my door with Penny trotting at her feet. I thought about turning myself into a hallway barricade, making it more difficult for her to barge into my apartment, but I couldn’t muster up the energy. Without any warning, my poor little Marvin was about to get pounced on by a freakishlyenergetic poodle. In a last attempt to save Marvin’s life, I yelled, “My door’s locked!” But Tania paid less attention to me than she did to the earthquake I had invented. She easily opened my unlocked door and called, “Romeo? Where art thou, Romeo?”
    I left a good pug behind that day.
    Mr. Molever came to his doorway dressed in striped baby-blue silk pajamas. Not that it would look normal on anyone, but he looked especially ridiculous. He gave me an “it’s about time” glance, which then morphed into an “I’m disappointed in you” downward head nod, which finally transformed into an “I’m reminding you of your mother” glare because of his slightly squinting stare of indignation and subsequent silent judgment. But that might have been me bringing some of my own baggage to this exchange. After what felt like three hours of awkward silence and repressed childhood memories, I handed him my rent check.
    “Thank you. I don’t normally bend the rules for tardy tenants, but since I can see by your appearance that you’ve had a rough morning, I won’t charge you the late penalty,” Mr. Molever said to me. I felt like punching him in the testicles, or at least ripping off his terrible pajamas, but that would ultimately have punished me. I had to just grin and bear it, because I needed his authority in order to shut up the girls above me and bring some much-needed peace and quiet into my life.
    “Oh, by the way …” I explained to Mr. Molever my unbearable living situation.
    Who: The girls above me.
    What: I can hear everything they say.
    Where: In my apartment.
    When: All hours of the day and night.
    I went on to list specific examples of my noisy situation. I could tell Mr. Molever was intrigued by these girls more than anything and showed no signs of sympathy. He walked away for a moment and returned holding a large binder with a sticker on the side that read OFFICIAL COMPLAINT DOCUMENTS .
    “Here, fill these out. Assuming there are no spelling mishaps or grammatical errors, I will give you the next set of documents you’ll need to complete.” He handed me the binder, which weighed about as much as a grown-up bowling ball.
    “Can’t you just go tell them to keep it down?” I pleaded.
    “Theoretically, yes. Legally, no. Not until the proper paperwork has been filed.”
    My fists clenched. Although I’m not sure why,