Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Booking ...

One thing I do miss about our old neighborhood is the daily intrigue. Perched up on that deck like a sentry. Fights and make outs and pizza delivery. Drinking themselves toward amnesia. The streets running with the urine of one million college-aged students.

I am a gawker. Like, big time. Sometimes Chuck has to remind me: "You are not invisible."

This neighborhood is quiet. Too quiet. The resident party animals are a young, young twenty-something couple across the street, and they usually have it on lockdown by 11 p.m. They also trim the edging on their lawn, sweep the steps and all sorts of other domesticated bullshit that leads me to believe they are qualified to host a Thanksgiving dinner.

But tonight, tonight there was drama.

Seemingly, a pickup truck came rip-roaring down Highland, opted out on the pause at the bottom and rammed into two parked cars before settling to a stop in a front yard. Both victim cars spun 90 degrees, one totally up on the boulevard and the other's back end perched on the curb.

By the time I'd padded down there in my socks there were three police cars-worth of personnel investigating, shooting photos of the scene. The driver of the pickup was long gone and every house in the vicinity was lights-out. Like no one heard a thing.

The guy who lives across the street from us -- we'll call him Gran Dammer -- played his hypothesis about how it happened. His son was tuned into the scanner iPhone app, which I will be downloading post haste.

"I love this shit," I said.
Gran Dammer nodded.
"He must have been hammered," I said.
Gran Dammer nodded.
Finally some common ground with the neighbors. For a minute. Then Gran Dammer didn't seem to care about my theories anymore and my jokes about how maybe the driver was our resident 80 year old OG because "He likes to get all crazy."

This morning it's the talk of the neighborhood.
"That motherfucker must have been booking," I heard the mailman say into his blue tooth.

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