I heard a knock on the door and I didn't know where it was coming from. The rest of the house was seated comfortably stoned in the living room watching O Brother! Where Art Thou, with Chris and I drinking forties. I walked towards the solid grey blue front door with the rotting brass doorhandle, turned it to discover an empty hallway full of bikes punctuated with a wooden and glass door, inside the glass criss crossed fencing.
The door was not locked.
I went to the only other obvious source of this noise, the back door, which is situated a small carpeted hallway and a left turn away from the front door. I unlatched the top lock on the door and turned the other rotten brass door handle to discover an african american male post-30, and to his side, a four year old black child. I knew her age because her fourth birthday was spent in the backyard with Emmy Chris and Kelly, playing musical instruments. She was amazing, he was a drunk piece of shit. Or maybe he was on oxy, who knew. He tried to sell it to one of them. He sat there and solicited them for cigarettes and weed in the short amount of time I spent outside stoned out of my mind attempting to fathom the idea of playing a guitar.
Not that I haven't before, but regardless. It was one of those nights. Here he was.
He said 'Let me in real quick' and shoved the door open a bit, his daughters hand in his. She had typical little plastic clips, whatever the fuck they are called, and looked like a sweet little cliche that could make anyone let this drunkard with a doo rag and a junky face whose lines seem too forced for his age.
The type of thirty something who might as well be 24 seven years deep into an addiction.
I forced him out. somebody has to be the asshole occasionally.
I said "I don't want you in my house, man" and shut the door in his face. I locked and latched it, turned away and went back to the living room where all the kids sat and looked at me, their eyes bearing the question the split second before they asked "What happened?" I told them exactly what happened they said "Oh." and a tiny bit of panic ensued, particularly in myself.
I was pissed. The type of pissed that only a vulgar statement could possibly declare.
Thus I stated: "If he comes back here I'll fucking stab him" a few times and fancied myself shoving a cheap steak knife from the drawer into this bastards heart, winning the accolades of all the public for my bravery in the face of danger.
I didn't think of his perfect little inner city urban child, and where that would put her. But as I do, I wonder if it would have been better or worse.
I'm going to assume worse. Nobody wants some fat white dude stabbing their dad.
I then went out front and promptly discovered his Bronco was smoking less than half a block away,
A few black dudes circled around it, one in a tall tee particularly exclaiming how "fucked" the situation was.
Someone called 911. They already knew about it. The firetruck came and promptly put it out as if it was a scene from Grand Theft Auto III. The cops came, and so did AAA. they lingered outside as those who made the exodus from the living room to the porch watched in bummed amusement, hoping it would have blown up but also glad to be free of the shrapnel which would have exploded.
Everyone was innocent except for me. I shut him out.