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Thursday, May. 29, 2003 / 10:18 p.m. ~The Neighbors~ I shouldn't let it bother me, but right now I'm really frustrated with it, angered by it, and I want them to move. I can't figure out how many live there, and why they're always on the front steps, why they can't go inside, or sit on their porch. There's the one who watches the little girls, and she must be 20, maybe younger, I think they've called her "Mommy", which is not exactly Spanish, but just the same. She could be the mom. She sits on the steps, talks on a cell phone. The little girls are so cute, one is maybe three, maybe two, the other must be months, or a year younger. Big brown eyes, dark brown hair, they'll say "Hi" if I do first. Otherwise they stare. No smiles, no cracks of smiles. And the other woman, same age, maybe a year older. She seems to have a child too, or maybe I see her with the girls, and the guy, the young man, who has never come close to smiling, nor saying hello or anything resembling it. He does things like lie under the car, puttering, or sit in the pickup, puttering. Or come in and go out, with one or other woman in tow. Then there are the two older men. Grandfathers? Not that old, but they must be parents, uncles, family friends, employers? The one walks up and down the sidewalk, or sits on the steps, cell phone pressed to his ear. He says hello, he smiles. The other was on crutches, and I initially confused them, foolishly asked where his crutches were, but he was the other. I know their faces now. One is all smiles, sort of flirtatious, the other sullen and unfriendly. I have to step over them, squeeze past them, every time I leave, every time I return. While they sit and stare, or ignore me altogether. If they're totally blocking the stairs they will move. If not, they won't. I don't want an audience on my way home after work. I don't want an audience if I decide to leave the apartment to go shopping, or out, anywhere, I don't want to step over people. Oh, and the friends, comrades, relatives, whatever, whoever, men, young, youngish, older, with cell phones, with cigarettes, apparently with no jobs, all hours, hanging on those same steps. No smiles, no hellos, no acknowledgement at all, but stares. The cigarette smoke actually comes in under my front door. I'll be sitting on my sofa, watching television, and I'll smell it. It will be the older man, the one with the cell phone, talking on the phone, smoking, 10:00, 12:00, 1:00 a.m., doesn't matter, all night every night. And all day during the day these people, any one or two or five or more of them are sprawled across the steps that lead up to the stairs I must ascend or descend to go anywhere, or return. And the truck today, the one with the stereo loud enough to be heard across several states, parked out front, the bass setting off a car alarm, parked and the children screamed and they all shouted to be heard above it. And they have two pickup trucks and a sedan amongst them, the friends have several trucks and cars, and they double park. I want them gone. No kidding. If not one of them is working, I don't know how they're affording the rent. It's not cheap. I really want them gone. They've irritated me far too often at this point. I'm just really over it. Right now the bass is booming. It wakes me up on days off. I would like to predict they won't be here much longer, and I do hope their belongings don't end up at the curb like a lot of the Section 8 people who come through here and leave. But I want them gone, and people I've wanted gone in the past 6 years of living here have gone, mysteriously or otherwise. I don't know how the woman downstairs puts up with it, she is directly across from their apartment. It's worse now, it's apparent now, because it's mild outside, the porch is open, everything is louder. The windows are open, the breeze is wonderful, it's almost cool out, no, it is cool, only 70, and I want to be able to let air in, but last night it was hot oil, fried chicken oil, spent oil from the apartment downstairs, and the smell of it was sickening. Previous neighbors smoked downstairs - I'd open the porch for air and the cigarettes would have me slamming the sliding glass door in anger and frustration. I wouldn't want a house on my own, too much work, unless I were wealthy and could hire people to do things for me, like lawn maintenance and structural maintenance, etc., but I want the benefits. Sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes, this, this apartment life makes me want to grab a shotgun and start shooting. Imagine, the guy with the truck with the new stereo in it, cranking his salsa, pulls up, cranks it up, and I take him out. So very satisfying, but I'd be caught in an instant and would go to women's prison where I'd be raped repeatedly with broom handles by big burly women named "Louise" and "Joan". I think I'm just frustrated overall. My time off is almost over. Even with three days left it feels SO almost over. I didn't even try to find another job. I never went out of town. I did enjoy MY town, and had a great time doing so, but I've barely scratched the surface of the things I wanted to accomplish. Seems I cannot be active two days in a row, so I go out one day, stay in the next. No real strong regrets, but I wish I had more energy. I just get so tired. I wanted to get out today, but I watched "The Hindenburg" instead, a cheesy (okay, not too cheesy really), seemingly made-for-TV movie on the infamous dirigible/zeppelin. And I sat on the porch, because it was yet another beautiful day. And I walked all the way to the apartment office to get my package from Amazon, but they had their 'out to lunch' sign up even though it was almost 4:00, and I couldn't get in. I just felt tired. Like my big day at the Zoo wore me out for the rest of the week. It shouldn't be like that. And the fucking constant bass booming right this minute shouldn't be like that either! It's just one of those moments, I just need to break something, or scream, or sit here and write about how angry it all makes me feel. Cost of the War in Iraq
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