Just a Quiet Saturday Night

         “Where’s my top?” I asked lazily.  A chill was starting to seep into me despite being under the covers.

          Eddie fished around for it. “Here it is,” he said and handed it to me. I pulled on the flannel shirt.  We resumed our cuddling, his right hand resting on my abdomen. The sound of a distant dog barking drifted in through the window of our yellow bedroom.     

            “Hon, get the TV,” I said to Eddie.  He sprang out of bed and walked the few feet to the living room. The TV was positioned on the side of the room that featured a wallpapered tropical scene. After cleaning and painting our apartment before moving in, we were no longer offended by the mural. It helped to fill the nearly empty room.

We were blissful newlyweds, married a few short months.  Our apartment building on Taylor Avenue, near the Bronx River Expressway, was in a row of dreary, pre-War apartment buildings. The brick wall of the next building was our view from the living room.  Our bedroom faced the rear of another building.

Eddie unplugged our little black and white set and wheeled the cart into our bedroom. He positioned it right in front of the bed of the tiny room. I loved looking at Eddie’s tall, lanky frame. He turned on the set and got back into bed.

“Who’s on Saturday Night Live?” I asked.  He leafed through the TV Guide on his night stand.  “It’s James Brown,” he answered.  “Oh great,” I said snuggling into him.

We watched the last 15 minutes of news before the show started.  A skit with Dana Carvey and host Jamie Lee Curtis opened the show. Then the familiar jazzy theme started and Don Pardo announced “It’s Saturday Night Live with musical guest James Brown” over a wailing clarinet.

It was Saturday, sweet Saturday.  No work the next day to worry about. We could be lazy for another day.

Upstairs the new baby started to cry and I groaned.  In the two months since moving into the building, I had passed our very pregnant upstairs neighbor in the entry hallway a few times.   Our eyes would meet briefly but no greeting was exchanged. I felt badly about that.

In the past week, sleep had been difficult for the new mom and me; the baby would wake us up at regular intervals.   Eddie was undisturbed. He could sleep through anything. 

I could hear the woman get up out of her bed above us and walk toward the kitchen, the baby wailing away.  After a few minutes I heard her walk back and the baby stopped crying.

 Eddie and I enjoyed watching the program for the next few minutes. Then the crying started up again.  I swore to myself that it would be several years before I had to deal with crying babies.

In the midst of the crying, I heard an apartment door fly open in the hallway and a man’s voice bellowing, “Shut that damn baby up!”  My eyes opened wide as I looked at Eddie.  I jumped out of the bed and ran past our tropical beach to the front door and looked out of the peephole. Our retired neighbor from across the hall was storming down the stairs from the next floor. He slammed his door.

I scurried back to our room shocked at his outburst yet laughing. More commotion soon ensued. 

The superintendent came up from his basement apartment and began pounding on the man’s door. He and his wife were Irish and had nine children.

Our neighbor across the hall refused to oblige.  Again I ran to the front door. From the comments, I had the impression the new mom had called the superintendent to complain about our neighbor’s outburst. Eddie was uninterested.  He just wanted to enjoy Saturday Night Live. He sat up in the bed, arms folded behind his head.

“There’s no need for that Frank,” yelled the super.  His wife and several of the children were behind him.

“What did Frank do?” asked one of the younger children.  “He said something bad about the baby,” said another.

The super gave up and walked away. “What an asshole,” he shouted.

Suddenly Frank’s door swung open and he stepped out into the hallway.

 “Call the fucken cops, why don’t you!” he demanded.

 “Oh what’s the matter with you?” demanded the super’s wife.  “Are you sick or somethin? That’s a new baby!”

“Call the fucken cops!” Frank raged and went back to his apartment slamming the door again.

I walked back to the bedroom appalled.  “Oh my God! I can’t believe that man! Who would do such a thing?”

“Frank would,” said Eddie.

We watched the rest of Saturday Night Live. Parodying Fred Rogers from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood, Eddie Murphy welcomed his neighbors to Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood, an urban and grittier version of the beloved children’s program.

“Today boys and girls, I made a new friend,” he said in a syrupy tone as he changed into canvas sneakers, the way the real Mr. Rogers did. The audience laughed.

There was pounding on the door of the Robinson home. “Open up Robinson,” yelled a man. “I know you’ve been with Juanita. I’m gonna kill you!”

Eddie Murphy’s eyes and mouth opened wide in mock surprise.  “Boys and girls, Mr. Robinson is going for a little jog,” he said approaching a window and opening it to step out while the pounding and yelling continued. 

“We’re living in his neighborhood,” said Eddie dryly. I turned to look at him and laughed.