Dear Kevin in 3C:

Congratulations on the five-day bender. Incredible. How did all those people fit in your apartment? My wife and I thought nothing would ever top your last Labor Day marathon. You’re an inspiration, Kevin. We used to get wild. The baby made us forget. But you’re our reminder, Kevin, that the party’s still out there.

The dubstep rattled our bed Wednesday night and we were like no way—Kevin’s throwing down. Through our paper-thin walls we heard girls laughing, beer bottles clinking, your dog barking. “Those girls sound cool,” whispered my wife, who’s six months pregnant. I agreed, listening as a delivery guy buzzed your doorbell over and over. Most people aren’t on a first-name basis with delivery guys. But you’re not most people, Kevin. You own six pairs of Oakley sunglasses.

Sorry to ask, but how much did your speakers cost? They’re so loud. During my Thursday morning work call, someone demanded I go on mute because of the “aggressive robot music in the background.” My clients never appreciate your dubstep. And, sadly, neither does our infant son. He cried all weekend as your music thumped. Or maybe it was your dog’s constant barking that upset him? What a relief that would be. If only the baby knew words to express his thoughts and emotions.

My pregnant wife and I respect you, Kevin. You own a monitor lizard, or at least we think you do, because you buy cans of live crickets online that sit in the lobby of our building until, we assume, the monitor lizard gets hungry again. My wife had a pet monitor lizard growing up. So cool.

We also appreciate how you maintain a job in tech sales while running on zero sleep. You sounded completely normal Friday morning connecting with your boss. Sleep deprivation turns me into an emotional grenade. But not you, Kevin. You’ve broken free from the shackles of REM cycles. You simply hung up the phone, rejoined your friends in the living room, and cranked up the volume on what I assume are the same speakers they use at Coachella.

Another thing: we as parents admire how you’re doing all this without taking drugs. Unless… are you into drugs? If so, respect. We don’t judge. How else could you power through Saturday night into Sunday morning? Everyone needs a boost, Kevin. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. These benders are important. They matter. We hope our children grow up with you as their role model.

You’re probably wondering why we stapled these pieces of notebook paper to your front door. My wife’s parents are visiting next week, and we need you to throw a rager like they’ve never seen before. We want it to last their whole trip, Tuesday to Tuesday. My in-laws just retired, and they’re back to partying hard. They don’t believe we’re neighbors with a 31-year-old who runs on vape juice and Papa Mariano’s Pizza Emporium. They don’t get it, Kevin. They don’t understand that we hit the jackpot, that we’re lucky enough to live next to the wildest party animal of all time. You’re what we left behind, Kevin—but hopefully you’re what we’ll return to.

Funding for KEV FEST (working title… unless you love it?) won’t be an issue. If necessary, we’ll empty our bank accounts. My in-laws need to see this. My infant son. My pregnant wife. Me. We all need KEV FEST.

Sincerely,
Apt 3B
(P.S. even if our unborn child is a girl, we’re naming her Kevin)

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Alex Dermody’s fiction has been most recently featured in Johnny America and Robot Butt. His published work can be found on Instagram @alexdermodywriting.