My mom lives in a triplex in a small south Jersey town that I absolutely adore. I didn't grow up here, but I'd be happy to live here. There is plenty to do along the single string of shops and restaurants a few short blocks away and the population is socially and economically diverse enough to keep my attention. I'd love to see my mom retire here to take advantage of the odd loveliness here.

I won't hold my breath. If she returns to living during the daylight hours after years of working night shift, she'll find no peace and quiet in her fantastically and cautiously decorated, show-room of a Victorian home because she is part of a triplex sandwich. She owns the pretty pink house on the end. I think I may have seen the elderly woman on the other end once.

But the meat. Oh my God, the meat. The meat of this little house sandwich tastes like Spam that's been fermenting in a spit can left out on a southern Tenessee back porch for three long, humid summer days. You can aquire the taste.

Having spent a lot more time here at my mom's house, I've gotten to know the neighbors quite well. The family suffers an enormous amount of pain and anger which seems to translate to an abuse of food. Drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes don't become them. The husband was out on disability for a while and struggles with his weight. She struggles some, too, but in more of a yo-yo fashion rather than an "I need to have the township put up a handicap spot because I'm too fat to walk a block" struggle. There are four kids with at more than ten years between the youngest and oldest. They lost a fifth as it was being born.

The wife also suffers from O.C.D. She has a sister who babysits here and there. His buddies don't come around much anymore since he's totally whipped. Even people who think that statement is a degradation to women would heartily agree after meeting them. He's got an endless need to please her by extending himself by having a back patio put on, buying an oversized HDTV, and attempting to buy an ice cream shop for her. Actually, he succeeded in that. They sold it after one summer. The patio survived one summer. Perhaps the tv will live longer. In fact, I've only heard the TV on once.

One of the older boys hangs out on the porch with his buddies. They don't smile much. Occasionally they'll generously spare a juice container or two. They leave them on the porch like some offering to the silver-haired cougar next door. One night I spiritually guided them away from making spit sacrifices on my mom's little stoop. They were quite grateful.

They comprise the bulk of the sandwich and I know more about them than I should, because they're the incredibly offensive meat in the middle. I don't even know their names.

I do know they had their bathroom remodeled because the tub has been sitting on their front porch since I can remember. I also know they like pizza because they leave them unceremoniously scattered across the front porch along with other items that even my imagination can't define. There isn't enough traffic in and out of the house for drugs.There's never cigarette butts on the street and they don't put out any beer bottles on recycling day, but they're weight still indicates abuse. I know she's obssessive because in spite of the eye sore her family leaves in the front of the house, she vacuums four or five times a day at any hour of the morning or night. And not just a quick handy vac sweep. No, she's actually cleaning. I used to get really frustrated by the sound waking me up or while attempting to sleep or after the vacuum woke me up and I tried to go back to sleep.

I know they're unhappy because of the screaming at 7:30 in the morning. And at 7:45. And at 8. All the way through lunch and right now I'm getting my fill at 11PM. I wanted to stop and reflect on it earlier, but I was too busy trying to figure out what they were yelling. And who it is. My mom and I disagree on who the man's voice is. She thinks it's there middle son who's apparently a terror. I guess he's 13 or 14 and the older son is around 16. A couple of times, I thought it was the father. None of them, however, is the lead vocalist. It's actually her voice that I hear first thing and last thing.

I've heard her belting out her angry cries even as early as six AM. Easily. I thought, "Does she just wake up screaming like that?" Occassionally, I hear the male voice. For all I know, I've heard all of them speaking up for themselves at some point. Unfortunately, I've also heard the toddler speaking up for himself with frightened and desperate sobbing. I've been waiting for him to unwittingly mutter, "Are you f'g kidding me?" I previously thought, "That'll really get her." But no, I guess it won't because she didn't realize who the other three kids were reflecting when they started going ape shit.

Lately, the guy's voice becomes so clear in the air that I swear he's in my mom's hallway. His favorite catch phrase is, "Can you fucking hear me?" Yes, actually. He says it over and over and over. I wonder who he's yelling at. His wife? Or is it one of the kids yelling at his mom, or brother, or younger sister. Even the toddler must be fair game over there. I was certain I heard the mom screaming at that baby the same way you hear people lose their heads in a bar brawl.

I would get really angry as anyone forced to listen to the horrifying tone of angry all day would. I couldn't stand it. I wanted to go over there and find out what in the hell has gone so terribly wrong. I wanted to call the cops. I wanted to call some invasive reality tv show to come in and point the finger at these people and put them through some therapeutic boot camp. For a while the sound really bothered me.

On one particular day the hollering began in harmony with the sunrise. Ahhhh, soothing. This time, I was certain she was yelling at her husband. After hours passed while trying to fall back asleep amidst the neighboring storm, I went downstairs to confer with my mother. She didn't match my certainty in who the target was, but I was simmering with confidence. In the early afternoon, I heard the front door slam to the meatheads' house. Mrs. Meathead's foul cries were not a novelty, but this lover's quarrel had me going. During an errand run, I saw the tethered man slowly, drunkenly moping towards his mortgaged hell. The quarreling boiled as though the water was never taken off the stove.

Unbelievable. How can ANYONE have this much anger? Or energy? Wouldn't you tire out after the first ten minutes of such intensity? Truly impressive. And upsetting. The adventures continued well past 4:30 AM. These people officially robbed me of entirely too much sleep. The next morning, their kids grew quite loud and I, still grumpy and wondering how anyone could've been awake over there, cranked some gospel to top volume and turned the speakers towards their wall. The father promptly silenced the boys, but these are daily affairs that he should always be more conscious of for their own sakes.

Even so, when my mom recently reached her rope with sleep disturbance, I gave her a talking to for turning her old NIN CD on at it's highest levels and did the exact same thing. Mostly, I was upset because the music was aggressive, I was tired and not ready for the energy, and was on the phone with my grandmother who has a paralyzed vocal cord that makes her extremely difficult to hear. I felt a bit overlooked among the war of inconsiderations. But also, my attitude was changing. I felt some hope after having the spit conversation with the hoodlums on the porch. I thought they might consider my mom a bit more and perhaps be quieter and not litter as much. Suddenly with "Head Like A Whole," my very vulnerable and new beginning was swiftly destroyed.

So the night before I am leaving I received quite the treat. I guess I was getting bored with my routine. I have few local friends and there's no TV at my mom's to dissolve into. While I lied in bed reading the rest of an old Calvin and Hobbes collection, the match began. Well, I lie. I have no idea when the match began because I did note that her voice was at full throttle at 7:30 that morning. However, she could've been dishing an even amount of venom to every lucky inhabitant for all I know. I'd tried throughout the day to figure out who. To figure out what the problem was. To figure out what clever things were said. At some point, I knew undoubtedly that husband and wife were at odds.

I quieted myself down for clues. I walked up to the wall. I ran throughout the house like I was a human radio antennae searching for the best vantage point. I gave up and continued my reading. Every now and then the dynamics would grow. I'd get exicted and make other small attempts to better my reception. Nothing worked. Ocassionally I'd run downstairs to see if my mom was up. Partly because I knew she got to bed late for her, mostly because I found the argument thrilling and wanted someone to gossip with. After a couple of hours, I heard Mrs. Meat yell, "Leave" among other things I couldn't discern. The door slammed in a house-shaking thud.

I stood on my bed to look out the window but could see nothing. I ran downstairs to see if my mom's snore continued on. I ran back upstairs when I heard a car pull up to the front and more screaming began. On my tiptoes I leaned myself on the bed to look out the window and saw the meatman, who obviously gained some weight, sitting in his car screaming for money. She opened the door screaming back that there wasn't any.

Silence.

Suddenly, she ran over to the car and punched the window. I thought, "Geez. You're going to hurt yourself." I suspected violence to be a part of their relationship that I hadn't previously presumed. She then opened the car door. Who doesn't lock the door when someone's getting aggressive? Moron. She punched him several times with the bottom of her fist clumsily and inneffectively. That eradicated my domestic violence theory. He, fairly calmly, told her never to hit him like that again. She questioned, "How dare you? How dare you? How dare you?"

I still couldn't figure out what he did. The only thing I really understood is that he was going to go to Browns Mills which appeared to be a result of there being no money in the house. He then drove away. She came back into the house screaming. I couldn't figure out at who, again. The toddler began shrieking, again.

Then someone turned on the shower. I hoped she was crying under the faucet to let it out, but somehow I doubted that. After some silence from them, the boys began getting rambunctious again and the typical demands, orders, and rebellion flew around the house. I wished I knew what all the hubub was.

Is it rude to go over there and ask if they'd speak up?