Back again today. Boredom and regret for taking this shift are setting in. Skunk_Girl just went offline, so I guess it’s time to turn to the productive, or some reasonable fascimile thereof, and continue with my story.
BTW, folks, I want you to know I’m never ever switching to night shift. This just plain sucks. I wanna talk to my g/f, or go home, or get drunk or play video games or something, and I’m stuck talking to losers like me that are working past beddy-bye time on the fones.
At any rate …
I know it’s been a pretty boring story up to now, but I just had to set it up for you. That was by no means an inexhaustable definition of the house nor the characters in it, but it was just enough to give you an idea.
BTW, another boring fact about the house. For 2200 SQ ft., the rent was only $425 a month. Sweet deal, right? Almost want to make you move to Tyler, teeming metropolis of 80,000 people. Trust me, don’t. ANYways.
I may want to re-iterate, for those who don’t know, that back in those days I was still sXe (translation: straight edge) as well as an ardent Christian. I’m still the latter, just not the former. I was also a virgin, never had a drop to drink, although I had been known to smoke a pipe every once in a while. Just so you know. After all, I AM the star of this show. (“We’re ALL stars. At the Dope Show”).
The first month there was pretty much uneventful. Which is odd considering. This house, it seems, attracts attention. I had been to that house once before I moved into it, when I just happened to have been there one New Year’s Eve when a friend of Jeff’s who owned the house had a party there.
First month was uneventful. I don’t remember much going on except me pining over my long lost girlfriend. I was so gone for her, I didn’t even start to look at girls for another 2 months after that. Which is crazy, because I lived with a girl. I don’t know how many of you have lived with an attractive member of the opposite sex that you weren’t going out with before, but you see them in just about every state of undress, and this chick was living in a bachelor pad, and none of us seemed to have any attraction to her. I guess we all had our own reasons.
The second month I lived there was a slightly different story.
There I was one night, after a hard days work of typing on the computer a bunch and fixing network issues, watching Celebrity Deathmatch, and I hear a banging on the door.
*BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG*
“Come in, the door’s open, bud,” said Rizzn, expecting one of his friends.
“Um, who is it?”
“OK, Hold on, I’m getting up.”
Ok. Nothing much can prepare you for what I saw next. I open the door and there’s this guy in a S.W.A.T. uniform holding a semi-automatic rifle. I’m thinking “Ok, whatever you got me for I didn’t do. OH wait, the guns not pointed at me calm down, breathe.”
“Sir,” he says, “You need to leave your house now.”
“Uhh,” I dumbfoundedly reply, “may I ask why?”
“There’s this guy, your next door neighbor, who has a high powered semi-automatic rifle threatening suicide, with a possible hostage situation. We are evacuating everyone in a 100-yard radius.”
Uhh, oh-kay. The cop asked me if there was anyone else in the house at the time, and there wasn’t, just Danny’s band practicing in his half of the basement. So I blew out the candles and put on a coat and walked behind the S.W.A.T. van for safety.
Meanwhile, Danny is down in the basement, auditioning a new drummer for his band, and they are about to kick it up with their rousing rendition of “Don’t Fear the Reaper”, when they hear a knock on the door. We for months afterward joked that if the cop had been five minutes later evacuating us, and Danny had started up with his song, the night probably woulda never gone the way it did.
If I remember correctly, this was a Friday night. Which meant it was drinking night. (Back in the day, I wasn’t even tempted when drinking night came along. I just hung out with the drunks, it was fun.)
So the band, Kathy, and Me were sitting behind the S.W.A.T. van for protection when my roommates and friends started pulling up with alcohol for the festivities. It’s also important to remember that on drinking night, none of the participants save Dewey and Jeff, my home-boy from highschool, were of legal age.
So up the minors pull with alcohol. We stayed outside talking and making fun of Sydney Harris, or as we grew to affectionately call the bugger that night, Psycho-Syd.
Danny told us the story about “Don’t Fear the Reaper.” And he also told us how that little house Psycho-Syd was in was cursed. He told us: “Before this night is through, that house’s windows are going to be broken out.”
It seems every year in October, or sometimes September, the windows get broken out. One year, a bunch of kids around Halloween broke all the windows. Another year, there was a huge meth-lab in the house that got raided. And in ’98, the festivities were provided by Psycho-Syd.
At one point one of the SWAT guys ran up to me and asked me if he could shoot out the streetlight above my window. I aggressively agreed. There was a 1000 watt streetlight attached to the side of my house perched right over the window behind my bed making it impossible to sleep. Or rather making it difficult. It was by learning to sleep with 1000 watts shining in my eyes that I became NARCOLEPSY man, the guy who can sleep under any circumstances.
They shot out the window, and went up to the second floor in Danny’s room to see if they had a good vantage point to snuff out poor Psycho-Syds seemingly pointless existence.
But, one by one we got tired of waiting around outside, and one by one we snuck back in the house when the S.W.A.T. wasn’t looking until about at 3:00. Then the party was on. We all piled up in my room, which had the best vantage point of the action, watched the news crews and SLEWS of cops crouched around this guy’s house. And the Papa John’s crews.. (Can you believe that the S.W.A.T. ordered Papa John’s that night? Delivered right to the van!)
Drinkin beer, watchin hostage situations.
As the night went on, hearing the shoutings between the cops and Pyscho-Syd, and catching the up to the minute reports off of MSNBC by the local NBC affiliate, I was able to gather that Sydney had just broken up with his girlfriend and gotten fired in the same day, came home, and took to drinking. With his faithful high powered semi-automatic rifle.
His friends came over, were, well, concerned, and called the cops, and left.
The climax of the night was when the sh!t hit the fan. I was on my computer getting an update, Courtney, Michael, Travis, Jeff, Ryan, Dewey, and Larry were sitting on and around my futon, which was now turned to face the window. Danny and Kathy were trying to sleep.
All of a sudden, I guess the cops were ready to go home. The busted out all the windows, tear-gassed the house, and out comes Psycho-Syd, preceeded by his hostage. His anklebiter dog.
That was the bit of drama that happenned early on in the house. I remember not too long ago recounting incidents like this that happened on a regular basis each month, althought they escape my mind right now.
But our house was like a little MTV show. You know. They always have those mixed co-ed groups living in a house? All we needed were cameras. (Which we eventually got. Another story. Another time.)
But more on that tomorrow, it’s near the end of my shift and I’m ready to get drunk. This has been such a get drunk
week. Sooo much stress. I think I’m going to either turn alcoholic or workaholic. I just found out I don’t totally wretch every time I drink vodka anymore, so I’m going to help myself to some of that tonight and see how it goes.
I guess that means over and out.
Quote of the Entry: (another chat log exerpt)
Crackbaby: I’m talking to a NetAdmin right now.
Crackbaby: his user name is phloughphie
Crackbaby: can you guess the pronounciation?>
Rizzn: hell no
Rizzn: *wonders what nationality that is*