Thursday, November 8, 2007

The Return of the Iceman

I kick it old school

Run DMC not Ja Rule

6 in tha mornin'!

Iceman Iceman!

So after the damn sandwich-in-the-trash fiasco, Iceman kind of faded back in with the rest of the bums that frequented the Town Pavilion, urinating on everything, sleeping on the park benches, yelling at themselves and in general being complete nuisances.

It was getting cooler outside, and football season was in full sway. I was working on a particular Sunday morning, which was always awesome because I pretty much slept until the Chiefs game came on and then turned the camera pointing towards the food courts on in order to catch the game. We had only one other guard, Ernest, who was as cool as they come, and he would usually bring in some under the radar movies or something like that and we would watch movies and the like instead of working. Good times.

It was on one of these days, whilst Ernest was "out in the field", which meant he was asleep in the company truck with the lights on or reading the paper on the can, both worthy endeavors that I myself had engaged in quite often, when I saw Iceman acting kind of strange across the street. He was kind of bopping up and down, like maybe he was dancing to some music. I left my post and moseyed on outside, and there was a new bunch of loft apartments going up across the street, and the construction that went along with that, and there was some kind of elevator music going on out there, to which Iceman was in fact dancing to. He also looked to be mumbling to himself, and both of his hands were in his pockets, so I assumed he was in a competitive game of pocket pool as well, and, becoming bored with him masturbating through his pants while looking at some of the pictures of the new loft (they did look kind of nice, but I am not sure that nice) I went back inside to catch the game.

Ernest calls me on the radio about 15 minutes later and tells me to look at the camera in our Main Street garage, which is odd because not much happens over there ever, it is a very quiet garage, that because it sits right by that huge Metro stop continuously smells of urine and is often during the colder months a kind of camping place for some of the city's homeless. I looked in the garage and saw nothing, and relayed this. Ernest told me to look in the stairwells, and there I saw him. The Iceman, apparently not content to jerk it in front of the lofts, had walked over to the garage and was in the act of taking a dump in the stairwell, his pants down and a strained look on his face. Company protocol dictated I call the police, but I am not sure if it is morbid curiosity or the fact that I would be annoyed to be bothered in the middle of a dump, but I decided to watch and then call when he was done.

So he's shitting, right, and all of a sudden some lady gets off of the elevator and starts walking down the stairs, and stops and appears to scream something at Iceman before calling - you guessed it - me. "Some bum is sitting out here naked!" She howls indignantly. I want to tell her that's not all he's doing, to take a closer look and then maybe she would understand and let it go, but decide better of it. I call the cops and make out an incident report. It was the closest I felt to Iceman ever, bringing me to the conclusion that shitting does bring the world together.

Iceman was a nasty motherfucker, but what was strange about his story is he was really schizoid, and was on medication; his sister was cashing his social security checks and the like and selling his drugs, and just kicked him out to live on the streets.

Another confrontation, which I may have talked about before but I don't care, did not end so well. There was a huge problem, since there was heat coming from the inside of the building, with homeless people sleeping in front of the doors, blocking them off. Now for the legitimately homeless, I would give them directions to the city union mission and sometimes even bus fare to make it out there, some people are just down on their luck and not sure where to turn. Some of them, however, are bums, who only want money for alcohol and urinate on the building and you too if you interrupt them.

I was on my lunch break when one such thing occurred. One of the female guards, Angela, was on tour walking around the building, and came upon one such bum. Now usually they would tell the bum to take a hike or just go ahead and call the cops, the bum would get up and saunter away, only to come back later so someone else could make them leave. We both knew our roles and played them out pretty well. This bum, however, was new to the game. Angela told him to get up, and he started calling her names: Bitch, cunt, whore, shitface, etc. Like a moron, she started arguing back with him instead of calling the cops! It escalated until the bum threw his bag at her, almost knocking her into Petticoat Lane, that little side street that connects Walnut to Main.

I was listening to the whole thing, and was pissed at this point. I slammed my radio down, grabbed the 14 inch Mag light, and stomped out there to teach that bum a lesson. He is still screaming at Angela, telling her he is going to whip her ass and how she is the reason he is homeless, yada yada yada, and then he turns and sees me. All of a sudden he is cringing against the side of the building, saying "I got epilepsy, I got epilepsy!" Whatever, bum. Apparently if he did it was not stopping him from assaulting Angela by throwing a bag apparently full of clothes and other assorted toiletries at her, so I persuaded him, with the help of my Mag light, to remove himself from the corner.

Apparently he did actually have epilepsy, and a bright flashing light intermingled with getting roughed up by a security guard dragging him away from the building is not conducive to those conditions. My bad, yo...

More tomorrow.

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