When I first moved to Denver, I lived in a loft in a converted warehouse. It was the first building to start the loft trend there, in the industrial district downtown, a 6-story red-brick monster built in 1905 that took up the better part of the block. Oh, when the agent showed it to me, how impressed I was! A big shiny new elevator took me up to #3G, where I took in the sight of an 1800 sq. ft. room with 25 ft. ceilings, 10 ft. high windows all over, and an elevated sleeping area. The hardwood floors were refinished and shining, the appliances the very-newly-chic stainless, there was a full-size washer/dryer in the bathroom, it had a rooftop sundeck, and was a short few blocks walk to the University of Colorado, where I was a student. It was totally, utterly, superly cool. Because I was a smart, responsible adult I asked the agent, “So, is it pretty quiet here? I need to study.” She replied, “Oh, yes, yes, it is a very quiet place, you will love it.”


Being new to Denver, and still retaining my Midwestern naivete , I just believed her. I did not talk to others in the building, didn’t really ask around, or LOOK. I signed a one-year lease and was all smug and thrilled that I could be such an urban hipster in my loft. I moved in.

The lesson that I would like to impart upon you is that you should always BOTHER to SEE what building is A MERE TEN FEET AWAY FROM YOUR WINDOWS before signing binding contracts. Yes, across the skinny alley was a DANCE CLUB. The most-popular, 7-nights-a-week –open-until-3AM dance club in town. Imagine. I am sitting down at night in my living room area with a high-caffeine iced coffee to try miserably to get through some basic math that is already freaking me out completely, and it begins. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. WHAAAAA???? The original single-pane windows vibrated visibly, and the mortar crumbled off the exposed brickwork. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. It was if you had your own stereo on in your own home, cranked to 11, with an elephant herd dancing in the kitchen.

ALL NIGHT, EVERY NIGHT. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. “GROOVE IS IN THE HEARRRRRRTT, HAAA AA AA RRT!” “EVERYBODY DANCE NOW! CRUNK CRUCKCRUNKCRUNK CRUNK!” “PUMP THAT BODAAAYY, PUMP THAT BODAYYY!” Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. I would sit and seethe and read the stupid math problems over and over because I could not concentrate because GROOVE IS IN THE HAAAAAAAAARRRTTTTTT!” Calling that BITCH, the leasing agent, did no good. We signed, that was that, sorreeeeee. I wished horrible things upon here, that skinny nasty lying piece of crap, I did.

OH, and when I could finally go to bed, after the INCESSANT CONSTANT music stopped and the drunken dancers yelling sloppily finally all filtered out and back to the suburbs? The city garbage trucks would barrel down my alley to pick up the club trash including what sounded like HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF BEER BOTTLES. CLANK CRASH SMASH CLINK CLANK CLANG SMASH! Oh, but not just ONE truck, NOOOOO. There were THREE. One came at 4AM, one at 5:30AM, and one at 7AM. BEEP BEEP BEEP ROAR SMASH! It was almost too horribly comical to bear. I had classes during the day, I had to try to sleep, but come on. I turned into Student Zombie, putting my head down on my desk in class to rest, pouring down so much coffee I think I began hallucinating, and having to really concentrate to walk. My trendy loft laughed at me as I swept up the night’s mortar rubble from the shiny floors once again.

Something had to be done. Sublet.

Now here was a dilemma. Ethically, I really needed to tell a potential sublettor that unless you slept all day and DANCED ALL NIGHT, this was an awful place to live. That was the right thing to do, to not pass on the bad karma. But I needed to GET OUT NOW. I worried about this, drank more coffee, napped in the Student Union, and didn’t know what to do.

Fate and karma can work in wonderful ways sometimes.

A couple made a telephone call to me, made an appointment to see the loft at 7PM, before the club opened for the night. I cleaned up, made it look as good as possible, and hoped that they were hearing-impaired or blind or both. 7PM comes, and I buzz them up. WELL. Look. Here at my door is a local sports writer, known nationwide for being a complete jerk and an all-around Not Nice Guy. On his arm is his new girlfriend, a tall big-haired mighty-makeuped and beheeled spectacle. When I take in that she is wearing, in summer, a full-length red fox coat, my decision is made. Don’t ask, don’t tell. They sign the sublet paperwork immediately. They leave, and I am joyous. GOOD LUCK, ASSHOLES!

I moved to an apartment about a half-mile away, a silent 30 stories up in the sky, and passed the math class with an “A.”