Thursday, April 23, 2009

What is UP with THAT??

OK, two weeks ago, I was treated to a Chick Encounter.  A week ago, we have a grisly and lurid murder // “almost” suicide event in the building directly across mine.  You’d think things would start to level off, get back to good, calm down, ease up.

My complex is normally very quiet and pleasant.  Everyone is respectful of everyone else – if you are walking your dog and see another person strolling ahead with their pet, you cross over to another side walk so there’s no fussy sniffing, no potential dog fights.  People nod, occasionally initiate a friendly greeting, “How ya doin’?  Nice weather.  Mornin’!”, some form of casual acknowledgement that you are part of the family of man.

Sunday morning, 11:30 am.  I am on the couch watching something with my daughter when we are treated to loud hip hop music.  Loud enough to rattle the windows; so I know it’s right outside my door.  I waited a few minutes, thinking possibly that some young buck was picking up his current amore for a frolicking day of love…and…loud music.

I waited more than an appropriate amount of time.  Five minutes passed.  I decided to stick my head out the door to see what I could see.

 meat-smoker-robert I saw a four door coupe parked, as I suspected, right outside my door.  All four doors were fully extended, the trunk flung agape, almost as if surprised at it’s exhibition of wanton abandon - - in an effort to fully maximize each decibel of sound.  On the grass next to my porch was a young man, lounging prone on a lawn chair, with a smoker puffing away, working presumably to provide he and his friends with smoked meats.  A little table was set up with what appeared to be ketchup and a few implements.  He nodded his head politely at me, I nodded back.  I quietly closed the door.

I don’t confront much directly – in fact, in my apartment complex, I like to keep way under the radar.  Occasionally I must hurl back after being verbally accosted (Chick), but mostly I keep to myself. I don’t complain to anyone and I try not to do anything that would make others complain about me. 

The goal is to not be discovered three weeks later bloated, wrapped in plastic under my bed.

Smokey turned down the music to a polite level after we acknowledged each other, but continued to provide delicious smoked nourishment to friends and family for most of the afternoon.  I am left with a burn mark in the yard and a few charcoal briquettes as a powdery black memory.

Who does that?  Three years I’ve been there quietly adhering to HOA rules and regs, and suddenly, I have someone screaming “I don’t want your dog sh*tting on my lawn”, then there is a dead lady across the parking lot, and the cherry on the April parfait is Smokey on my terrace. 

I’m hoping things quiet down now.


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