WadeRandolph.com

6/20/05

That's Assault, Brother.

For a brief second I mistake a streetlight for the moon.  And I get lost.  Not that I'm not lost most of the time.  But for that second, I have no idea what's real.  And that second seems to last and last and last.  And I don't have to worry about all the things that I worry about.  I don't have to care about money, or the means to get money.  Or what's happening right now.  A helicopter passes and the spell is broken, and I'm just standing in the courtyard.  It's very real now.

It's not that big of a deal, but I feel like I should treat it like it is.  One minute we're all drinking and having fun, and the next, everything changes.  The police are here and that's a little disconcerting.  If not totally confusing.  I dialed 911 only minutes ago and hung up when the recorded message began to play.  Maybe that's why they're here, but it seems too sudden.

I apologize to the landlord a thousand times.  She is still wiping the sleep from her eyes and shivering under the early morning chill.  Yes, we were being loud, but this seems uncalled for.  My friend gives his statement to the police.  About how the Mad Russian grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall.  He leaves out the part where I managed not to piss myself.  He decides not to press charges, and I agree with his choice, even though deep down I wish he had.

It takes a special kind of person to exact physical actions as his means of expressing himself.  A type of person I'm not particularly fond of.  A type of person that lives in the apartment next to me.  But I didn't grow up in Russia, so I can't be sure of exactly how I'm different.  Although I know I am.

The police leave and the landlord goes to sleep.  To my surprise, the party is still going.  And I sweep up the pieces of glass that used to make up a Corona bottle, struck from my roommate's hand and shattered on the concrete below.  Nobody seems too worried about what just happened.  So maybe I shouldn't be either.

One thing is for sure, though.  If that fucking neighbor of ours, the crazy Russian one, the one that just attacked us for being too loud on a Friday night... If he ever talks to me, even to apologize, I'll surely tell him to fuck his Russian self.  I'll call him a psycho and make him feel like an asshole.

That is, if I can keep from pissing myself while I do so.

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