(I can’t fix the formatting on this one. Sorry)
Strangely, after writing a different blog entry about gunfire, I heard more gunfire last night. A quick popopopopopopopop. Not sure what kind of gun fires that fast or if it’s just a fast trigger finger, but I have to say, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t hear the cops follow up on that one. You see, while I’ve mentioned I live in the ghetto, I haven’t ever really explained it in depth. There’s that saying about living on the wrong side of the tracks, but what most people don’t know is that there are actually two sets of tracks. I happen to live on the good side, however close, to the second set of tracks. The cops don’t go past the second set. I don’t think you can get past the check point of random fire that guards the second set until you’ve killed about, oh, say, ten people. Ten very scary people. So like I was saying, the cops didn’t show up for that little battle royale.
Now, this little anecdote leads me to my actual story of today; my neighbor almost killed his roommate one night about two years ago. That’s a slightly dramatic introduction to Jim*, street name Rock ‘n Roll**–yes, really–but he’s a drunk, balding, overweight, and slightly dramatic kind of guy. So picture this: I’m sleeping at about 2 AM when I wake to the strangled cry of “help me”. I’m not exactly an alert person, especially at 2AM, but this kind of sudden information has a way of shaking the Sandman’s dust out of your eyes. I sat up in bed thinking, “Did I really just hear someone say that” when I suddenly hear what sounds like furniture crashing. Keep in mind that my apartment is made out of the cheapest material on the planet. Third world shanties have sturdier building equipment than my place does. I regularly lay in bed and hear Rock ‘n Roll walk down his hall, put the toilet seat up, piss, put it back, flush, and walk away. No joke. Hearing a strangled cry is not impossible.
“FUCK” I whispered, fumbling around my dark bedroom for my phone, “why does that asshole have to kill his roommate now? This is so fucking inconvenient for me.” Meanwhile I’m crashing into things frantically searching for my phone and trying to figure out what I have to say to the 9-1-1 operator.
I found my phone, ran back into my bedroom, and, not completely sure what to do, put my ear to the wall. Nothing. I opened my flip phone. Again, no sounds. I dialed 9-1-1. I hear something. Giggling. I pause mid dial, then, “You like my cock in your ass, don’t you, bitch?”
Eww! More giggling. I don’t know what kind of weird sex games they’re into, but I didn’t want to know anymore. I ended up sleeping on the couch. I wouldn’t know the appropriate thing to say to them the next morning anyway, “Hey, do you mind keeping it down? I don’t want to know about anal sex from you two haggard semi-vagrants. Thanks!” Just doesn’t seem appropriate to piss off someone with a street name.
Luckily I haven’t had to worry about hearing their weird sexcapades anymore. The cops came to both our houses looking for her one morning a few weeks later; I don’t know what she did. I hope that maybe Rock ‘n Roll released her into the wild on the other side of the second set of tracks to be with her friends.
*I’ve changed his name to protect myself as I’d rather he never have any inkling that I’m writing about him. Fuck keeping his identity a secret; this is about saving me. Although chances are that he doesn’t have internet.
** That’s his actual street name. Maybe I just like living on the wild side.