When we lived on the 5th floor of Coolidge Tower at UMass-Amherst during our first two years of marriage, I wished for one thing above all others: a shoulder-fired, sound-guided ballistic missile. When the students would come back from the bars at 2:30 a.m., I would wake up and mumble my fond desire for it. When the delivery trucks started back-beeping the food into the dining hall at 4:30 a.m., I would wake and wish again. Once we moved away from from UMass, my ardor cooled. In Prague, it tended to be pretty quiet where we lived, occasional construction notwithstanding.
Now, in Livingston, I find myself again longing for a convenient way to take out loud stuff for good. Naturally, there are the trains. Since we live only a few blocks from the tracks, we get to hear them all hours of the day. They are occasionally bothersome--especially at 3:30 a.m. when the driver seems to get a special high from sounding the signal extra long (he's thinking, "If I gotta be up, YOU gotta be up!")--but nothing compared to the construction equipment that rolls up our street more or less all fricking day long recently.
As we speak, my son--only recently recovered from the stomach flu--is trying to get his much-needed nap. I don't mess with this nap for anything. Not for a play date. Not for a doctor's appointment. Not for a state dinner. He needs it, and heaven knows I need it too. But instead of napping, Connery today is being kept awake by the approximately 3,529 pieces of heavy machinery that have decided to rumble down North 7th Street this afternoon. Where are they all going? What are they all doing? And, most importantly, where is my damn missile???