The 11PM Solo

The 11PM Solo: A Late-Night Tale of High Notes and Higher Blood Pressure
Behind every door, there's a story... and a to-do list.

It was a regular Tuesday night. Not peaceful, not chaotic—just the usual balancing act between “what’s that smell on the second floor” and “why are there muddy footprints leading into the laundry room when it hasn’t rained in three days?”

I was winding down, which in building management terms means I hadn’t gotten a noise complaint in at least two hours. That peace, of course, was short-lived.

At exactly 11:03 PM, my phone rang.

Not a text. Not an email. A full-on call—because nothing good ever happens when a tenant actually calls instead of emailing. It’s either an emergency, or they’ve gone from annoyed to spiritually offended.

I picked up.

“Hi. Sorry, but I really need to report this. My upstairs neighbor is SINGING. Loudly. Again. I don’t know if he thinks he’s on stage or just doesn't own headphones, but it’s 11 o’clock at night and he’s belting out show tunes like he’s headlining a one-man disaster.”

There was no pause. No space for polite reaction. Just pure theatrical rage.

“This happens all the time. Can you tell him to knock it off already? Some of us have jobs in the morning.”

And just like that—click. They hung up before I could even get in a full sentence.

Now, I’ve dealt with a lot in this job. Floods. Squirrels in vents. Mysterious smells no professional has ever successfully identified. But nothing quite stings like being the middle manager in a tenant vs. tenant musical feud.

So I did what all building managers do when the walls get louder than they should: the hallway investigation walk.

Sure enough, third floor. The voice echoed faintly into the corridor, rich with emotion and maybe a little nasal vibrato. I couldn’t make out the lyrics, but I caught the vibe: dramatic heartbreak and defiance, probably Les Misérables. Or maybe Wicked. It was giving final number energy.

The tenant? A quiet guy. Very respectful. Once emailed to say sorry for “accidentally running his dishwasher too late.” That kind of tenant.

But apparently, after hours, he becomes the star of a full Broadway revival—and our building becomes the unpaid audience.

I didn’t knock. No need to embarrass anyone mid-ballad. Instead, I went back down and sent a short, kind-but-clear email:

Subject: Quiet Hours Reminder 🎶
Dear tenant,
Hope you're doing well! Just a quick note—a neighbor mentioned hearing some late-night singing around 11 PM.
I totally understand needing to unwind or rehearse, but just a reminder that quiet hours begin at 10 PM. If you could keep the volume down during those late-night sessions, that would be greatly appreciated.
Thanks for your understanding!
— Lily

He replied fast. Like, really fast. Probably still sitting at his laptop in a robe, fresh off a finale.

“Oh no—I didn’t realize I was that loud! I’ll stop after 10 from now on. Thanks for letting me know.”

Crisis averted. No drama. No lease clauses quoted. No hard feelings.

And the building? Blessed silence.

Well—except for the faint humming I caught the next day near the recycling bins. But at least it was daylight. And in tune.

As for the caller? Never followed up. I imagine they drifted off to sleep that night like it was the final scene of The Sound of Silence: Apartment Edition.

Just another day behind the doors of Lily Daily Dwelling.
No curtain calls. Just call bells.