89er 911

January 11, 2003 &bull uncategorized

Reflections on the 89er, part four

“Somebody call the cops! Help! Somebody call the cops!” And, I did. But it was such a half-hearted attempt that I’m a little embarrassed to even recall the details.

My new neighbors at the 89er were three in number: a mom, a dad, and a little boy. Unfortunately, the parents had a strong desire to beat each other up while letting the entire floor in on the action. It was reminiscent of my last neighbors except this time there was less pleasure in the pain, if you know what I mean.

One thing that surprised me was the level of hostility that came out of the woman of the household. From what I can remember she was the spark behind many of the late night rumbles. Don’t get me wrong, her husband was no Ward Cleaver. I remember hearing the sound of soft pornography coming from their mono television speaker. Along with the sexy saxophone and the faky moans and groans came the persistent badgering. “What are you watching. You watchin’ that shit again? Huh?” (slap! shove!) Then he would explode and all hell would break loose. Again.

One Sunday morning I heard the familiar screams in the hallway, pleading for someone to call the cops. I had lived next to this for months and knew the routine. Frankly I was just a kid and was actually a little scared of getting mixed up the mess next door, which is why I tended to never really do anything. If it were now, I’m not sure what I would have done. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t go over and open up a can of “Soprano whoop-ass” but I probably would be a little more aggressive in getting the authorities involved. Anyway, this time it seemed like a genuine plea so I picked up the phone and dialed 911. I quickly lost my nerve and hung up. I guess I wasn’t surprised when the phone rang two seconds later.

I explained the situation to the emergency response operator, who kept insisting that I meet the officer at the front door and let him in the building when he arrived. I, however, kept insisting that I wasn’t too crazy about getting “capped in the ass” by my psycho neighbor. I negotiated a simple “buzz in.” I’m not dumb enough to associate with a cop who is going to be hauling away my blood-thirsty neighbor.

I keep trying to end this story on a cheerful note, but I can’t really come up with anything, which somehow feels appropriate. Like most of the other tenants at the 89er, my neighbors moved out a few months later, making room for the next occupants. I, too, moved out as soon as I finished school and could afford a better place. I had always joked around with my friends that I was more relieved the night I turned my key in at the 89er than when I had received my diploma. Like college, living at the 89er was a learning experience. One I was happy to leave behind.

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