Crazy Comes Knocking

I went for late night take out yesterday evening.  I backed into my driveway as the light was turning gray, just past sunset but not quite dark. 

“Excuse me, do you know what time it is?”

Down the drive way came a woman dressed in blue walking a mop of a dog all white. 

“It’s quarter to nine,” I replied, as I locked my car and set my food on its roof.  I felt it better to keep my hands free and my car keys out; my drive way’s not that long, she could’ve asked without coming down, and I don’t live in a good part of town.

“Thank you.  My husband is working in that house over there on the second floor,” she gestured vaguely at the other houses, “He’s doing some work for a really nice lady but the lady who lives above her is really crazy.  She comes out on her porch, leans over and screams at me if I try to go to the other lady’s door.”

“I don’t really know any of the neighbors,” I said, although I do know that cocaine can be bought up the street and handguns are one street over (no, and, no, to the questions you’re thinking).

“I don’t have a cell phone so I can’t call him and he’s been there over an hour and a half and I just want to get him home and make him dinner”

“Uh huh,” her faint lisp, heavy Masshole accent and brain vomiting made be wonder if this woman was keeping time with Jack Daniels and Jim Beam while her husband was “helping” the really nice lady...for over an hour and a half (I could make a remark about “eating” and “dinner” here but I shall refrain.).

“The lady who lives upstairs is really crazy”           

(you said that already and maybe she found the cocaine)                                         

“and violent”                                                              

(should I leave my food on the car roof as an offering before I back away and here’s hoping neither of you found the handguns)                        

“and I’m afraid she might try to hurt me if I knock on the other woman’s door”

(there better be an ending to this soon or I might try to hurt you and your little dog Toto too, cocaine and handguns be damned)

“so I was wondering if you would go and knock on the second floor woman’s door....”

“No!  No, absolutely not!  No way!”  Screw the offering; I grab my dinner and start to back away quickly, keeping my car keys facing forward in my free hand. 

She starts walking up the driveway with puff ball in tow, “I just want to get my husband and make him some dinner.”                                                                                      

Oh, that’s just lovely:                                                                                    

‘there’s a crazy violent woman across the street, can you go talk to her?’ 

‘No, because I’m too busy talking to the crazy woman in my driveway!’ 

And what the hell is “dinner” a metaphor for for this woman anyway? 

I hope the dog has its leash for dinner and escapes to saner pastures.  

August 1, 2009

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