The Apartment Sammich: A Field Report from the Kitty NASCAR Nationals 500
I live in the second-floor middle unit of a three-story apartment building. Which means I am not upstairs or downstairs. I am structurally compromised.
Above me live two women. Heavyset A-Ganger types. When they move, the ceiling doesn’t creak — it registers seismic activity. They don’t walk. They advance. It sounds like two moose learning to Riverdance while wearing work boots and making eye contact with God.
I have accepted this.
Because acceptance is cheaper than therapy.
Below me live people. Quiet people. Hopeful people. People who thought, “The second floor seems reasonable.” These people were wrong.
Because between these layers of humanity exists me.
And my cats.
Enter Captain Thunderpaws — a lean, tactical menace with a thousand-yard stare and a deep mistrust of inanimate objects — and his sister, a plush, gravity-honoring loaf who runs like a beanbag chair with dreams. Together, they have unionized and designated the hours between 4 and 5 a.m. as prime time for the Kitty NASCAR Nationals 500.
Captain Thunderpaws runs laps with intent. Corners tight. Speed reckless. His sister follows behind, thudding like a dropped couch, creating shockwaves that travel directly into the apartments below.
But running is not enough for him.
Captain Thunderpaws is also a collector of forbidden materials.
Plastic? Must be eaten.
Receipts? Delicious.
Packaging? A challenge.
And thumbtacks?
Thumbtacks are a personal vendetta.
The bulletin board in my home exists solely so he can attempt workplace sabotage. He removes thumbtacks with surgical precision, carries them proudly across the room like trophies, and drops them somewhere I will absolutely step later.
This is not curiosity.
This is intent.
Somewhere at 4:32 a.m., while the Moose Brigade above me practices their interpretive stomp routine and the poor bastards below me clutch their pillows in despair, Captain Thunderpaws is:
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chewing plastic like it owes him money
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liberating office supplies
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and preparing for another qualifying lap
The soundscape is indescribable.
From above:
THOOM. THOOM. STOMP.
From my apartment:
THUD-THUD-SKREE-CRASH
From below:
…quiet sobbing…
At some point — during what I believe was Heat Three — I laughed so hard I passed out and peed a little. This is not hyperbole. This is the human body choosing joy because the alternative was homicide.
Captain Thunderpaws paused mid-run, made direct eye contact, dropped a thumbtack at my feet, and continued running. His sister followed, thudding behind him like a decorative ottoman possessed by demons.
This is not chaos.
This is union work.
They punch in at dawn.
They do not negotiate.
They are protected by bylaws written in fur, plastic debris, and stolen office supplies.
The people above me stomp.
The people below me suffer.
And I — caught in the middle — serve as both witness and accomplice.
One day, I will be on a cruise with a private pool, waking up to silence and ocean air. Captain Thunderpaws and his sister will remain at home, continuing their reign of domestic terror and minor structural violations.
Until then, I live in the apartment sammich — humbled, caffeinated, vigilant about thumbtacks, and slightly damp with laughter.
Giggles 😃
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