I Loved Lucy

The clock always seems to tick louder when I can’t fall asleep. I’ve been awake for three days; the person in the apartment above me will not stop. If she isn’t watching “I Love Lucy” on maximum volume, Frank Sinatra’s voice is vibrating my ceiling fan. I would go up there to ask her to turn it down, but I was raised to respect my elders. Also, I’m afraid it would spread throughout the building that I am harassing the elderly woman in 5b.

My fingers begin to work out a beat on the mattress.

Beads of sweat pushing out of my head.

The hum of the ceiling fan rattles in my mind.

I pull myself out of bed and make my way into the kitchen. Pouring myself a glass of water, I realize I can still hear the wails of Lucille Ball. Oh my God, if this doesn’t stop I might go insane.

Desi Arnaz Disorder.

Vivian Vance Syndrome.

William Frawleyosis.

I look at the clock above my sink, five-thirty. I might as well get ready for work; today is an early day at the office, I have to be there by seven. Something about a new client with a lot to offer.

After taking a shower, I get dressed and eat breakfast. At the elevator I’m not sure what button to press, up or down. I press up. I reach the fifth floor and walk down the hallway. There’s 5b. I press my ear to the door and listen. My hopes of hearing movement were drowned out by Ricky Ricardo ranting in Spanish. The person across from 5b walks out her door. She’s staring at me. Without a word, I walk to the elevator and press down.



At work, I can’t seem to focus. The words on my computer screen seem to dance. Co-workers try to talk to me during lunch, but my attention is on the slow drip of water coming from the water cooler.

I can only scowl at the secretary, Lucille. Every time I look at her she seems to shift uncomfortably. To make things worse, she has red hair and wears clothes that look like they’re from the ‘50s. Her face may not resemble the fire-haired Lucy from television, but it’s close enough.

The hands on the clock move slowly. Mocking me. It’s nice to be away from the noise, but the silence is just as bad.



Slipping the key into the lock of my apartment, I can already hear 5b’s television. And it is still “I Love Lucy.” Is there a channel just for that fucking show? This is the worst it’s ever been, her television is usually off at this time.

I pick up the phone and call my friend.

“Hello?” He answers, a constant thud in the background.

“Hey, it’s me. I was wondering if I can stay at your place tonight. The lady upstairs has been blaring her television every night and I haven’t slept in—-”

“No can do, man. I’ve got, um, a friend over. She’s going to be over for a while.” I hear a prolonged moan before he hangs up.

I lie on my couch and turn on my television. I turn it up as loud as I can. How do you fucking like that? I think to myself, staring at the ceiling. Even with the volume of my TV turned all the way up, I begin to doze off. A commercial catches my attention:

“This month on TV Land, is all Lucy all the time! That’s right; everyday, 24/7 for thirty days, is an ‘I Love Lucy’ marathon.” This is spoken over scattered clips of the show.

“Holy shit…” I say to myself. I don’t know what to do. Do I just sit here for a whole month and tough it out? Or should I go up there?

I put my shoes on and walk to the elevator.

I press up.



I knock lightly on the door. Realizing Fred Mertz’s argument with Ethel overpowers any sound in the hallway, I knock louder. And, like some cheesy horror film, the door pushes open slightly on my last knock.

“Hello?” I say as I walk through the door. As I walk in I notice the atmosphere changes completely. The room is cold, and there is a strong, rotting smell. All around the apartment, on the floor and walls, is “I Love Lucy” memorabilia. I see the top of someone’s head slightly above the back of a recliner. I walk toward her.

“Ma’m? Hi, I’m from 4b, the apartment downstairs? I’ve been having trouble sleeping and I was wondering if you cou—-” I stopped dead in my tracks. In the chair, wearing a fading t-shirt with an image of Lucy and Ethel—-covered in chocolate behind a conveyor belt—-is the corpse of the tenet of 5b. As if reading my mind, Lucy begins to wail.