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It’s like a nail caught in a bike tire—ppttssssssssssssss. Like a faulty shower head. Plip. Plop. Plop. It’s all those types of fuckin’ sounds in one, really, and it seems much louder and annoying than anything else ‘cause he knows it’d just carry the hell on if someone don’t ever see to it.
Daryl ain’t feeling particularly ambitious right now, but like most nights in this undergrad-infested apartment complex, he’s annoyed. Almost to the point of violence. Usually it doesn’t get there, he means, but is no stranger to confrontation. Threatening his dumb-ass neighbors who are too good natured and stoned to take him seriously has became something of routine for him.
“Knock it off or I’ll knock out your teeth.” Daryl’d yell out his screen door.
Then, eventually, the noise will subside.
But not before someone shouts back, “you got it, old man.”
Which he’ll never stop getting huffy over. He’s in grad school, not a long-term care facility.
Anyway, tonight’s not worth the effort, because it’s Halloween. He made a quick night of it all. Was at the bar he frequents every Friday by ten, had some beers, took a few shots and played a set of pool with some friends, but was back and standing upright enough to unlock his door by twelve-thirty. He was whiskey warm, a little hungry, but most he was just tired.
But now, it’s nearing the 1:00AM mark and there’s still music playing from every flat. When he’d ambled up to his door, there was still paper mache streamers and ghost hung up, but all the pumpkins lit up in the court yard before he left had burnt out. For every seven count of lost and minimally dressed freshman looking for free alcohol and half quality reggie, there were 3 wandering juniors with bullshit pun costumes that were tricking on seniors with sexualized versions of regular ass uniforms—like the “Sexy USPS Courier” he’d seen eating a cold cut out their mail satchel—and treating on their own 750ml of lighter fluid and orange juice that they swear is a creeper bro.
And as you can imagine, it smelled great out there. Like sweaty sex he ain’t having, food that’s either cooking, burnt or expelled, and liquor. Lots of it. All of them. Some he’s not sure is legal in this state.
And it’s all wafted up into his cell block window.
But he cannot, forgive the fuck out of him, forget the hell hymn of the poor-pining S.O.B. outside his apartment door that has also been filtering in, making itself comfortable like an unwanted houseguest that helps themselves to your leftovers.
He’s sounds right up against the door now.
“Whoaaaaaaaaaaa,” the guy croaks. His voice cracks. He coughs some. Then he starts up again with a few hiccoughs.
“Will you walk—hic—with me down—hic—on the wiii—hic—wireeeee, ‘cause baby I’m a scared—hic—and—hic—lonely rider, but I gotta know how it feeeeeeels!”
Daryl places his pillow over his face and pulls. It’s not the person he means to smother, not nearly as satisfying, but it will have to do.
“I wanna know—hic—if love is wiiiiild, ba—hic, oh god—by, I wanna know if loooooove is reaaaallllllll!”
It’s the last straw when he hears the man sing the guitar. It’s not even the correct chords.
Daryl shoves himself off the bed, makes for his living room and pulls open the door with the strength of a mama bear whose cub has just been threatened (in this case, the baby cub would be his sleep). The yodeling man falls through the threshold of his front door onto his back and Daryl dies. His eyes water. He laughs until he can’t breathe anymore. Shit, his sides hurt.
It’s Dr. Monroe’s other T.A.. Closed mouth and bossy, great smile and laugh, and is usually congenial among the undergrads, but is, behind the scenes, a cocky know-it-all that can never ever be wrong. Daryl wish he had charged his phone. He needs a picture. It’s a pretty good costume. He’s got the arms for it, at least. He’s definitely not going to mention any of that.
“I’d be lyin’ if I say I hadn’t dreamt of somethin’ like this happenin’ before.” Daryl squats down to inspect his visitor.
“What I’m hearin’ is you’ve dreamt of me? Was it good?” Rick Grimes grins, pauses, then adds way too confidently for a guy sprawled out on the floor, “was I good?”
“No, said somethin’ like this. Bruce Springsteen singing at my door is a good dream. This is somethin’ of nightmare.”
Daryl moves to stand again, but Rick reaches out for his wrist.
“You gunna invite me in for a beer?” Rick asks, rubbing thumb into his pulse point.
Daryl snorts.
“Got some nerve, being such a hard ass at work and then…”
“Come oooon, man, invite me in.” Rick begs. Daryl rolls his eyes and finally makes a stand. And when he does, Rick reaches out to clutch onto his ankle.
“Good grief. Go home, Grimes.” Daryl laughs, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, “Need me to call you a ride?”
“If you don’t let me in, I’ll keep on singin’.” Rick says.
“Ain’t doin’ much favor to you but…” Daryl stares outside. Some people are finally starting to trickle away from the complex, noises are starting to dim. He almost forgets the pest latched onto his leg.
“So,” Rick interrupts, burps, then rolls over so he’s sitting with his legs crossed, “When are you gunna take me out?”
Daryl stares down at him, nose flaring and eyes rolling. He’s got several questions that come to mind and all of them are some variation of “what the fuck.”
“I thought I was inviting you in for a beer?” He finally settles on.
“Well—hic—if you insist.” Rick says, standing up impressively fast and making it his way towards the refrigerator door.
Daryl pivots and watches Rick find two amber’s and pop open their caps on his counter top. It makes a fizz that sounds like some of it hit the floor, but then he’s offering Daryl one of his beers and smiling wide and Daryl can’t even feign indignant.
Daryl isn’t feeling particularly ambitious, but there’s no way he can just let Rick buzz around him like this, like a fly stuck between the shade and glass, can’t just let him carry on being annoying and distracting and loud. Nope, Grimes has got to be seen to.
So Daryl accepts the beer and the challenge, grins against his best efforts not to and closes the door.