Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Mmmmm.... Crack (pt. 2 of 4300002894)


Damn Tourette's Syndrome
shit ass cock fuck farts asshole!
sorry about that

The Saga Begins...

Alright, after the apartment manager found out there was 7 of us living in a 2 bedroom apartment and had been the cause for almost half of the police calls to the area, we were told to get the fuck out and don't come back. What happened next was absolutely hilarious, unless you are me, in which case it is not. I played football, being too fat to wrestle and too uncoordinated to play basketball (Which was kind of cool, because it was always funny when someone assumed since I am black that I could play and it always made me chuckle when I saw their face fall upon the realization that they had found the only one who could not), and thusly had weekly games, which until the delicious siren call of the crack pipe called my dad would attend. I had heard we were told to move, and my dad spoke briefly about moving back to our old house, in The Duplex (there WILL be many stories on that place), though I was under the assumption it was still in the planning stages and had not yet made it to the implementation phase...

So I was at a football game, and living about 3 blocks from the school, as usual I walked home. Upon arriving, I unlocked the door, a little startled that no one was outside since it was such a beautiful evening, and stood there in shock. The entire house was completely empty, save for some very inappropriate sharpie drawings on the walls, a stench of urine and a small mound of human shit sitting in the living room. I stood there, dumbfounded, then walked toward my room thinking perhaps my dad had pawned everything in the living room and dining room and everyone was hiding in the rest of the house. Nope. EVERYTHING was gone. I walked out, in my football pads (I usually changed at home and walked up there that way, it was easier and like I said I am lazy, too lazy to change my clothes to walk anywhere) and sat on the front stoop. About 20 minutes later my dad drove by, and informed me that we had moved while I was gone and thanks a lot for helping out in a sarcastic tone. I wanted to tell that buttfucker that I was at a football game, actually playing in it, and wasn't even aware that we were moving.

So I get in the car, and as we're driving along my dad is telling me I have to get over my attitude, things don't always work out like we plan and he is doing the best he can. I have no idea what this numbnuts is talking about, I know he's a failure he doesn't have to try to explain it to me like I am a moron too. I am wondering how I am going to keep my girlfriend, we had been together for a couple of years at that point and you wouldn't believe this from looking at my picture but ladies didn't flock to the Stevester in those days.

We get to The Duplex, whose ghostly horrors I had assumed I had escaped forever a few years before. Before I get into that, though, let me explain the condition of the apartment: when I told you there was urine, very primitive and inappropriate drawings and a mound of human shit in the living room, I was not embellishing or kidding you. Janet's son, who we will call J, informed me that for good luck when they move out of a house he shits on the floor and draws some scenes depicting the good times they had had in that abode. I was also shocked to learn that they rarely got a good reference from previous landlords.

Anyway, we get to The Duplex, and it is pretty much a dump: broken furniture, eggs cooking in the kitchen, the sweet smell of crack and marijuana wafting through the air, very loud music being played on a very cheap radio. This was to become life for the next 6 months. We did upgrade from eggs to a few packages of cinnamon rolls for our daily meals (nutritious!) and they did pay to keep the telephone on, as is custom for drugged out losers (if you know a drugged out loser, you know what I say is true: no food, no lights, no gas, no water, but that phone bill is ALWAYS paid).

It was at the Duplex I met the Alphabet gang. The Alphabet gang was not really a gang; it was a phalanx of crack dealers who all had one-letter names for some inexplicable reason: V, O, M, J and so on... these gentlemen would some over and hang out like they owned the place, and I guess in a way they did because my dad was always talking about owing them 2500 dollars or more. They would give him crack "on credit", meaning he had to give them all the money he had, and then when he got paid he had to pay them again even if he was only a few dollars short. They would call my dad "Steve-o", which was not as cool as it is now that there is a famous "Steve-o" in showbiz. If it was possible to prostrate himself any more before these losers, there would have to have been bodily fluids exchanged. When they would call he would come running from wherever in the house he was, outside, upstairs, the dungeon (I will explain why it was called that later)... we would yell out "Dad! Phone!", and he would be all like "Tell them I ain't here!" (Which the person on the phone could almost always hear) and when we told him which alphabet guy it was, you could hear him saying "oh shit oh shit" under his breath as he ran to the phone.

The Alphabet Gang were a study in hilarity themselves. They would frequently "kidnap" my dad, meaning they would take him to their house when he owed them too much money (which was often), and allow him to run another crack tab there. He could not come home, but he could make phone calls all day long, annoying us with his whining:

"Son, your daddy's been kidnapped. Don't cry now -" I never knew why he said this, we knew the score and usually put him on speakerphone and walked away -" I know with the love and support of my family I will be able to pull through this-" usually as soon as he got kidnapped his wife would disappear until about an hour before he got released- "but I don't know what they're going to do to me, son... I'm scared." I would usually remind him that they were going to let him smoke crack until he paid his bill off, which would make him feel better and he would hang up, presumably to go smoke some more crack.

Being kidnapped meant the drug dealers would use his car, which was almost new when he bought it but had been beaten up so bad it now sounded like a dying lawnmower (really) and no one could sit in the back seat because of the trash and product he was stealing from whatever job he was working at that week. It also meant that he could drive himself and a dealer to his job so he could still make that money, and a dealer would pick him up after work. When he got paid he would sign his check (or a gross majority of it) over to the dealer, which would usually cover just the back-crack he smoked, which would be enough to let him out and then he would have to work to pay off what he smoked while he was there. Simple economics. When he was set free, he would come home and run up the steps, both hands slapping his sides like he was doing a jumping jack the whole time, and burst through the front door usually to find.... no one cared.

Sometimes when we felt like playing a trick on him we would write a letter saying we had abandoned him, and usually we all waited in the other room while he read it and laugh out loud at him when he started whining like a punk. When he noticed us there he would grab his wife and start sobbing like a bitch, talking about "Don't ever leave again Janet, a hrrooo hhrrooo hhrrooooo!" Kind of like a basset hound but whinier sounding.... stay tuned, tomorrow will be a lot funnier I just wanted to give a little background.

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