I’m No Angel

My morning ritual includes drinking one cup of Lavazza coffee while I try to pin the remnants of dreams to a clean page in my journal. I prefer to write wrapped in silence. Most days I do—my neighbors have already shoved off to work—so Jake the dog’s soft snoring and birdsong outside my window are my only companions. One morning, a window-rattling beat blows by, blasting from a car that stops suddenly in the middle of my street. The volume drops slightly, and an amplified dial tone soars over the music. A conversation begins between the male driver and a woman on the other end of the line. It sounds as if it\’s being broadcast from my living room. I rise from the couch and look out my windows to see a young man behind the wheel of a spotless compact car. I open my front door, still in my bathrobe, and step outside. “Excuse me,” I call from my driveway. He can’t hear me. I walk to his car. All four windows are down. “Excuse me. Would you please lower your volume? I can hear you from inside my house with the windows and doors closed.” “What the fuck,” he says, “It’s fucking 9 am.” “Actually, it’s 7:30 in the morning. But time is not the issue. The noise is the problem. Lower the volume, please.” “I don’t have to do what you say.” “Lower the volume.” I turn and walk away. My blue velour bathrobe, purchased long ago on sale from Victoria’s Secret, has the word “Angel” emblazoned across my back in faux rhinestones. “You’re no angel!” the young man yells at me. I turn back to face him. “That’s right,” I say, firmly. “So you better lower the volume.” He turns the music off. He turns the volume down on his phone. I step back inside my quiet house, pick up my journal and write. ©JoeyGarcia All Rights Reserved. Joey Garcia loves long periods of uninterrupted quiet time and helping people live happier, more self-aware lives. She\’s written the Ask Joey advice column in the Sacramento News & Review since 1996 and is the author of When Your Heart Breaks, It\’s Opening to Love.