COMMUNAL CLASHES Part 1
I’ve lived in some communes that I’ve been meaning to write about for years. Some of them involved drugs, a lot of alcohol and changing of locks with threats of drive-by shootings. I know people who’ve lived with escaped convicts who’ve tried to kill me. I’ve had a housemate’s belongings put out on the front porch before barricading the front door while I stood on the first floor balcony as he screamed up at me what a heartless bitch I was. I puffed calmly on my cigarette while I sipped my gin and tonic and gave the nosey neighbours something to stare at. Since they insisted, you know. My landlady, her husband and their two little girls trembled in the bedroom downstairs as the verbal war on the upper level ensued. I hopped onto their phone to call the Flying Squad (at that time familiar to us as the Flopping Squat, or if we were really drunk, the Electronic Yellow Pages). The dude at reception was taking so long to take down my name and address, not to mention the situation ensuing just outside the bay window where we could see said offender hammering and kicking to break down the door, that I told him I had my own backup and, as Kurt Cobaine was prone to croon, to pay no mind.
Trouble...
Spine, my next door neighbour, who happened to be studying to be a dental technician pulled out of his driveway with his gat on the front passenger seat, ready to be whipped up, should that be at all necessary. He tracked our housemate from hell around the corner and stopped the car next to him to get him inside. Of course, he tried to sit on the front seat but that’s when Spine cautioned him that that’s where the gat sat. So he begrudgingly got in the back.
Part 2 tomorrow...
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