One innocent evening, my friends and I were studying for either midterms or finals (I can’t remember which) at Paul’s place. We were scattered across Paul’s living room with our books out and earphones plugged in, completely still and studious. Of course, as it somehow always happens, there was a party upstairs.

Throughout the night, the party started getting loud. Eventually, Paul went upstairs and politely asked if our neighbors could keep it down. They tried, but as you’ve probably guessed, that didn’t last very long.

My friends and I ignored the noise and immersed ourselves in our books anyway. Fifteen minutes later, I started to make out the Macarena song playing upstairs, and the footsteps started getting even louder. Then, the unthinkable happened.

“CRACK!”

I looked up. Paul’s roommate Micah looked straight at me, his eyes wide. “Did you hear that?!” he said. I motioned towards the beam that lined the living room ceiling. It was broken.

I alerted Paul, who had his earphones on. Immediately, Paul ran upstairs and told our neighbors to stop the party. Seconds later, some drunk, international kids came downstairs starry-eyed by the fact that a beam had broken because they were dancing the Macarena.

One of the drunks came forward. “I’m an architect,” he asserted with attempted confidence, and a red cup in hand. We stared at him. “Don’t worry, this isn’t serious! Beams are only used for aesthetic reasons.”

I googled his claim. He was wrong.

After that, two female cops somehow showed up at Paul’s apartment, ending the party upstairs. For the rest of the week, long pieces of wood held up the beam (and the entire apartment complex, for that matter) from completely collapsing.

I never saw those neighbors again.