The Underworld

 Millions of us live in a multi-story building but few of us, live on the top floor. Top floors are touted as the ideal spot and they cost more than all the units underneath. My realtor told me that top floors and bottom ones are the most desirable. I'm in neither. In days of yore, the top floor housed the upper strata of servants in fine houses. That is where the nanny, the tutors and companions resided in their tiny, sparsely furnished domains. Below them, trod the owners of the manor and below that were the real workers: cooks, butlers, maids and footmen. The people who served those in the middle. These days of elevators and security and towers that take years to construct, the top floor is the most expensive part of the glass and concrete heaps that people call home. Now that the average joe resides in a multi human dwelling, owing to expense and the economy that continues to evolve upwardly, there are small and large implications occurring.  One of them is living under another's living space and knowing that individual in  ways that are unspoken but very much there. Few apartment owners sit around listening to every move but every move can be heard.  In most of my dwellings, I have been on the top floor, none of which were the "penthouse". I lived there glibly thinking that because I was on high, I had all the privacy anyone could wish for. Consideration of your fellow towerites meant wearing soft shoes or slippers and avoiding  flushes until after six in the morning. The latter isn't a rule that makes sense to me. One such place I know of, houses two thousand people and no one knows anyone else living under the same roof. They are all working types who live by the same rules and regulations as their fellows. They come and go about their daily business, perhaps nodding in the elevator or hallways as they pass. One would think that meant perfect privacy. Not so. Like many truths that are unspoken, they remain so, while at the same time, are blatantly loud. Let me explain. My present space is under another elderly couple who lives above. Although we say "hello" or "how are you" as we pass, we expect no further conversation. We assume we know nothing about one another because we "keep to ourselves".  Again, not true. I cannot help but hear my neighbours above. I don't listen deliberately, but as I go about my day, I recognise their footsteps: the woman's, the man's, their visitors' and occasionally, the workmen's. I've been here for three years and although the party above doesn't party, I know a great deal of private matters about them. I know when they rise, cook in the kitchen, go to bed, use the "facilities", launder, vacuum, have visitors, slide their glass door, sneeze, cough and I think, snore. There is ample building soundproofing but the layer designated to do that work, is not infallible. Thumps, water swirls, door shutting, droppings on the floor all happen even when I do not listen, they register in my mind. I would prefer to hear nothing at all but the crows, seagulls, planes and traffic outside, but inside, the closest sounds are inevitably inevitable. From footsteps alone, I can assess even emotional aspects at times. Slamming of doors, stomping of feet, cheery greeting runs and falling down sounds all have meaning. Silence is also a "sound" telling me if my upstairs folk are home or away. If I compiled all of these sounds in a time frame and mulled over them, it would tell me my lofty neighbours' stories. I am no snoop, nor are you, but if you are a tower dweller, you understand what I am saying. We don't have our own roofs or patches of dirt, but we, too, are part of the human society that must care.