The Giant Woodpecker Living Beneath my House

It's been going on for weeks. Every morning I wake up thinking that the builders have finally returned to finish the house. It sounds just like hammering, like they're finally nailing down the shingles that keep blowing off, or securing the handrails that come loose when leaned on too heavily. So I lay in bed with my eyes closed, imagining that when I come downstairs I'll see three men--trustworthy in stained plaid shirts and three-day scruff--taking a much-needed break. I'll ask them if they would like some coffee. "Hell yes we'd like some coffee," they'll say, and I'll put on a pot and ask how the morning's task is coming along.
Of course, no one has come to finish the house. There's no money left for anything: I can't even afford to have the giant woodpecker taken care of. My sister tells me that I should do it myself, that I could flush it out with a hose, or scare it off by banging a couple pans together. But I'm not that kind of guy (plus, I wouldn't want to ruin my pans; they're the nicest things I own). So I put up with it. I'm at work for the better part of the day, anyway.
When I come home each night, the giant woodpecker is still at it. I figure that maybe he's only trying to keep warm, too. I imagine that smaller creatures, like dust mites and germs, are perhaps driven mad by the sound of my chattering teeth, or the fleshy grate of my palms rubbed together. I rationalize like this as I eat my Cup of Noodles, as I watch grainy NBA games, and finally, as I read the business section of yesterday's paper. But when I crawl into bed, I can't rationalize it any longer. It's my basement after all, unfinished as it may be, and it's not exactly fair for some giant woodpecker to move in without my permission. I lay with my hands clenched, swearing to myself that after just two more of those house-shaking knocks, I'm going to pound my fist on the wall until that giant woodpecker cools it. I could take a quiet tap-tapping--even a soft rap-rapping--but this heavy pounding is just too much. I decide that tonight, I'm going to do something about it.
I take deep breaths until my anger evaporates, until my heart beats in sync with the pecking. When I walk downstairs, I'm calm. I'm collected. I pull the string on the basement's single light bulb, and the room flickers to life. I focus my gaze on the pupil of the woodpecker, which is larger than my entire head. His eyes are empty and flat, but I can feel his stare: It's colder than the wind howling through the unfinished siding. I ask if he'd like some coffee, and he tells me that hell yes, he'd like some coffee. I ask how the pecking is coming along, and he says fine, fine, it's coming along just fine. Then I ask him when he's going to be leaving. He doesn't respond, so I follow up quickly: It's not that I mind, but how do I explain to guests that there's a giant woodpecker living beneath my house? He's quiet, considering this, and then he asks me how I would feel, instead, if I had to explain the unfinished house hanging above my head? That's why he keeps pecking, he says. He's too embarrassed to stop. I almost ask him why he doesn't leave, but that's a stupid question. I read the business section of the paper, I'm not a moron. So I nod, and I take a few steps back up the stairs. I turn to look at the woodpecker a last time before turning off the light, and again I see the enormous eye with my tiny, convex reflection frozen in its center.