Serenading the neighborhood

When the manfriend bought a house, we looked for peace and quiet, a place where we could spend lazy days outside basking in the sun and listening to the birds chirping.

We thought we found just the place...a tree lined backyard, off the main drive, a few kids running around...the average American street, no doubt.

Little did we know about the band.

The first time we met a neighbor they asked if we had heard the band yet.  A look passed between the manfriend and me.

"Uhm, no..."

Neighbor:  "I'm sure you'll hear them soon.  About 10 o'clock."

"aaah..."

Neighbor:  "You will."

Another look passes between us.

Thus was the initiation to the neighbor's garage band.  Who needs to practice in the middle of the night?  I mean, zombies and vampires, maybe, but people?  Unnecessary.

Plus, this wasn't at 10pm.  Oh no.  This was straight up midnight.  And this wasn't strumming guitars and crooning vocals, as a serenade should be.  Nor was it mariachi, which is also acceptable for street performance in some cultures.

This was guitar-breaking, drum-pounding, angry-screeching heavy metal.  My peaceful evening became the soundtrack to the zombie apocalypse.  Fearing that maybe the apocalypse had indeed occurred, I peered out the window.

"Maybe they're having a party?"

But with the 15 cars they typically have, I just can't tell if there's a new one or two sitting in front of the house.  Realizing that my life was not in immediate danger, I left the window and occupied myself with drowning out the music.

The serenade wound down around one.  Either they decided to feast while they still could, or someone called the police.  There is such a thing as a noise ordinance, you know.