In my earlier years, I spent my well-earned free time rotting away in a tiny apartment complex downtown. Although it wasn’t a pretty place, it was all I could afford. Occasionally, somebody would start yelling at their spouse, or they’d blast their music too loud; nevertheless, it was home, and I was content enough. Every night, however, there was one thing that annoyed me to no bounds. As I would try to drift off to sleep, a light tapping would reverberate through the walls of my room and it would often keep me up later than I would’ve liked. I thought about confronting my upstairs neighbour many times but decided against it because, to be fair, it wasn’t really that loud anyways; I just happen to be a light sleeper. The sound was similar to somebody walking in high heels, but not as loud. It was as if the person making the noise was trying to do so in a discreet manner. I doubted that my upstairs neighbour was making the noise intentionally, as it had gone on for approximately a year every night without stopping; in addition, the tapping had a very distinct rhythmic pattern to it that I didn’t think anybody would boredly mimic for such an extended period of time.
One weekend, a friend of mine brought his young son over for an afternoon. Apparently a pipe had burst in his apartment and flooded his whole floor, so the occupants had to leave while the mess got sorted out. I gladly welcomed them. Spending time with friends at our age was a blessing, and I hardly got to see him as he was now a busy father. He always had an interest in music, which I respected him for, and his son had an array of musical toys. As we were relaxing, his son started tapping on that little rainbow xylophone toy that I think every child from the last century had. My heart skipped a beat. The toddler tapped the exact same rhythm as the nightly tapping from upstairs. I immediately asked him what it was and he laughed.
“We learned it in school,” he giggled. “It’s called morse code. That’s the one to call for help.”
MyShelf 