Monday, January 22, 2007

Dispatches From Baltic Avenue

I talked to my sister Runtie last night to compare notes about our weekends. She spent her Saturday night out at a club and was asked for her phone number. I spent my Saturday night accidentally snapping my spatula in half and learning that it’s difficult to stir scrambled eggs with my hands. And I think the last time a man asked for my phone number, it was because I’d rear-ended him on the interstate.

Late Saturday night, my neighbor and I had a tiff. And by ‘tiff’, I mean at about four a.m. I was leaning over the railing of my balcony violently whipping his door with a fully-extended golf ball retriever in an effort to get him to turn his music down. It’s not that I don’t enjoy listening to Monkey Business it’s just that it was so insanely loud and immediate sounding, I expected to look down to see Fergie pissing on my comforter. On the bright side, that was the first time my headboard has been rattled since we had that earthquake. I should probably take the morning-after pill just to be safe.

Some of the other goblins that live in my complex are convinced that this particular neighbor (we’ll call him #3 because that’s his house number) is a meth addict. And not just because he purchased a Black Eyed Peas CD. Apparently he shows some telltale signs of addiction, things like refusing to recycle, not buying candy from the dyslexic child who appeared on everyone’s doorstep pushing “Five Takes” bars, and banging on #9’s door to tell her that he could feel something crawling through his skull. Actually, they may have a point. You’d have to be on drugs to even speak to #9. Her place smells like Jean Nate, hot wings, and desperation.

Yesterday afternoon when I went out to buy a new spatula, someone had taped a note to his door informing him that the next time his shitty music shook their vinyl siding, they were calling the cops—who no doubt would appreciate the chance to cite someone for an offense other than loitering in front of Borders. Hell, maybe I’ll report him. The officer might even ask for my number.

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