I wasn’t able to afford to take a real trip this Spring Break, just like every other Spring Break ever. While my friends ventured out to Ocean City, Florida, South Carolina, and Georgia, I took a day trip down to Southern Maryland to visit my parents at their house on the lake. There may not have been a couples-only drunken beach obstacle course hosted by MTV and Tila Tequila, but I figured I could at least finagle a free lunch of some kind.

As my family and I made our way into the tiny fishing town for something to eat, we turned onto a small street called Carl’s Way. Carl’s Way, as in the Way that belongs to Carl. That was the first time I had seen an apostrophe in the name of a street, besides the short-lived Towson road named after Michael Phelps back when people still liked him. I didn’t know it was possible until just the other day, but afterwards I thought about how great it would be to have my own Way. One day, though, I’d like to move up to an Avenue and maybe eventually have my own Parkway or Boulevard. From there it wouldn’t be difficult to leverage my own neighborhood or suburb, and you can imagine how things might progress from there. Either way, having a Way would be a great launching pad to local fame and perhaps, eventually, national success.

Just as I was getting excited and making these grandiose plans in my head, an old, blue-collar fellow in a dirty jumpsuit rounded the corner. He walked slowly and underneath his worn hat brim, his eyes scanned the road in front of him.

“That must be Carl,” I thought. “Out keeping an eye on his Way.”

As we drove past Carl, he followed our car with his eyes and gave a solemn nod of approval, as if to say “You guys are alright,” with a hint of “Don’t try anything funny, ya hear?” The nod was so subtle you could barely see it. I guess he just didn’t have the energy anymore, or the will. I got the impression that keeping tabs on a Way for 40 years can be taxing on the soul.

Later on, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Carl’s day must be like. I thought about all the tourists he must meet and how all the locals must know him by name. I thought about all the trash he probably picks up and all the traffic lines he must repaint. I thought about all the skateboarding kids and jaywalking pedestrians that he probably yells at. I thought about where he might place his rocking chair so that he can sit and drink whiskey out of the bottle and not cringe at all when he swallows it. I thought about how he probably wears that jumpsuit just in case anyone’s car ever breaks down on his Way and he has to crawl under it and get to fixin’. I thought about how some county inspector in a suit and tie probably comes out a few times a year to make sure everything is in order, and how Carl probably doesn’t even get out of his rocking chair to greet him.

“I reckon everything’s alright here,” he’d probably say without looking at the inspector.

“Great, I just need you to sign this document then.”

Carl would sign it, then he’d spit out some chewing tobacco as a signal for the man to leave.

I imagined that Carl was like the sheriff of his small Way, and that one day his son Carl Jr. would take over for him. He had to name his son Carl for obvious reasons.

It wasn’t the glorious image that I had imagined when I first read his street sign. It turns out that having a road named after you isn’t all girls and parties and red carpets after all; it’s hard work and sacrifice. I wondered if there was still a place for people like Carl in our time of bureaucracy and traffic lights and the moving pictures, and if he had trouble keeping up. I hoped that Carl Jr. might be able to bring Carl’s Way into the digital age when the road became his.

Of course, maybe there is no Carl and the man I saw that day was just some guy in a jumpsuit. I’d like to think that that was really him, though, or at least that there was a Carl a long time ago who kept watch like I had imagined.

Throwing parties can be a risky hobby. Opening up your home to dozens of people and then letting them all get wasted can have consequences.

There are the obvious things that can go wrong, like the time my laptop got stolen. I called a few friends and next thing I know some guy I have never seen before is at my front door returning it and saying that he saw “some dude walking down the street with it.”

There’s the time some moron tried to steal beer from my house and that night almost ended in a huge brawl.

There’s the time a homeless woman wandered in from off the street and kissed my friend on the cheek, because she thought he was her dead son. That was the first time I ever called the cops (you can read about that one on my old blog at www.life-in-towson.com). I had another bizarre party moment this past weekend that I’d like to share.

Last Thursday night I threw a party at my house, and it was one of those nights where it got bigger than I had originally planned. I’m not against big parties by any means, but the more people there are, the more likely it is that some crazy shenanigans are going to go down. This night was no exception.

Two of my girl friends came running upstairs at about two in the morning, laughing hysterically. Tears streaming down their faces, they told me there was “some old guy downstairs dancing around.” Normally, I’m all for old guys dancing. But if an old guy is going to shake his shit in my house he had better be my granddad or Mister Six from the Six Flags commercials.

I headed downstairs to investigate. Lo and behold, right there in my living room was some 46-year-old creeper guy with one of my beers. He had long, dark hair and a weathered face, almost like Prince Valiant after a few years of crystal meth. Some of my friends were already escorting him towards the door, and he went without a struggle. On his way out he shouted something about being “Larry, from the neighborhood.” There’s only one house on my entire block. Once Larry from the Neighborhood was outside, we shut the door behind him and watched for his next move. He sat there on my front porch for a minute, holding his beer and looking around, before he made his way down the steps. At the bottom of the steps, he paused, shut his eyes, and leaned forward. My friends and I all looked at each other.

“Is he…. is he taking a piss?”

In case there was any doubt, Larry from the Neighborhood swung around to face us and presented his junk proudly. Yes, Larry from the Neighborhood was definitely pissing in the middle of the sidewalk. He finished up and put his garbage away, still facing all of us staring out the window at him. With his bladder empty and his confidence restored, he marched back up to the front door and started staring in through the glass.

“What the hell are you doing? You need to get out of here,” we yelled at him.

He kept his composure, and very calmly proclaimed, “If I should find you unacceptable…”

“What the hell man? Are you insane?”

“If I should find you unacceptable!!” he repeated.

We never did find out what would happen if Larry from the Neighborhood found us unacceptable. I guess he decided we were all right. After jawing back and forth with us for a minute, he took his beer and his bruised ego and left, defeated. Larry from the Neighborhood has since been spotted in and around Towson several times, walking around like nothing happened. How dare he.

I found out later that before I came downstairs he had gotten the beer by threatening to trash my house if his demands weren’t met. Also, apparently, he loves Jesus. Or so he told everyone. I wonder if he’s completely crazy or if just a drunkard. Maybe he’s just a down-on-his-luck guy who needed a cold beer, some good company, and a vulgar public urination session. So if Larry from the Neighborhood shows up at your place some night, it might not hurt to indulge him and listen to his story. If he whips it out, though, make sure you steer him outside.

I worked tonight from 5 o’clock to around 11. It was my last day delivering pizzas before Christmas, and the holiday spirit was inescapable. Light 101FM filled the shop with festive tunes, Christmas cookies were popping up out of nowhere, and “have a good night” was replaced with “Happy Holidays!” when addressing customers. I guess you’re not allowed to wish people Merry Christmas unless you are completely sure of their denomination. The last thing you want to do is offend a Jewish person before they decide how much to tip you.

Despite all of the holiday cheer, it was turning out to be a shitty night. It was raining, nobody was tipping, and I wasn’t in a mansion having sex with a model on top of a pile of cash. Things were looking glum.

I made a run to one house that was covered with decorations. I’ve found that if I’m not sure which house I’m looking for on the street, it’s probably the one with the most lights. Holiday nuts love pizza. It was certainly the case for this house. A bubbly middle aged woman answered the door in a holiday sweater and, after completing the transaction, offered me a Christmas treat to take with me. She handed me a festively wrapped apple covered in chocolate and caramel and sent me on my way with a Merry Christmas.

The night suddenly wasn’t so bad.

The last delivery of the night was somewhat of a landmark for me. I had heard talk about a mysterious regular customer… a customer who would order every week…. a customer who would order enough food to last him several days at a time. Not just pizza, but desserts and drinks and everything but the kitchen sink. They called him “Charlie Manson.”

A huge order popped up on the screen; three pizzas, two subs, a couple of two liters, some brownies, a cannoli. The total came out to be around $55.00. My boss asked me if I had ever been to Charlie Manson’s house before, and I told him that I hadn’t.

“So, is his name Charlie Manson or does he just look like him?” I asked.

“He looks just like him. A younger Charles Manson,” he replied.

Charles Manson has always kind of fascinated me. The way people talk about his hypnotic presence, the fact that he is one of the most famous serial killers in the history of the world, and his frightening appearance… he sounds like a scary guy.

As I drove to his house with his humongous order sliding around in my trunk, I was anxious to see this guy. I flicked on my overhead light and took a glance down at his address; he lived at the very end of his street.

The street was dark as I turned onto it and it only got darker as I neared the last block. I finally spotted his house in the shadows on my right. The ticket said to use the side door. There were no lights on in his house. I grabbed his food and made my way towards the entrance. The yard between his house and the next was, again, dark. The wind funneled through the make-shift alley and kicked around what was left of the rain.

His door had leaves around the entrance, a few cobwebs, and a black trash bag covering a torn screen. I’m not gonna lie, I was pretty creeped out. I knocked on the door and took a step back as my heart pounded.

I heard some faint footsteps and a cough before I saw the knob start to turn. It flew open and right in front of me, lurking beneath a pale hallway light, was Charles fucking Manson. I almost jumped when I saw. He looked EXACTLY like him; disheveled beard, raggedy flanel shirt, psychotic eyes, and all. There were mysterious bags full of God knows what strewn about his entrance way and the place gave off a funky smell.

He was actually a really nice, mild mannered guy though. But the entire time I dealt with him I couldn’t shake the idea that I was talking to the real Charles Manson.

After I got off of work, it was pretty late and I decided to hit up a drive through for dinner. Taco Bell had a thousand people waiting so I went to McDonalds.

As I waited in line the kid in the passenger seat of the car in front of me stretched his arm across the back of the drivers seat. I followed the line of his arm with my eyes and ended up at his hand… which was giving me the finger.

What?

“There’s no way that was meant for me,” I thought. Maybe I had misinterpreted what I saw. That’s when I saw him look back at me. That motherfucker looked me right in the eyes, flicked his head as if to say “what are you gonna do about it?”, and then he gave me the finger again!

I didn’t know what to do. He kept sneaking me the finger and then looking back to see my reaction. I just stared at him in disbelief, shaking my head occasionally in disappointment. It crossed my mind that he might be with a big brother or someone who would kick my ass if I retaliated in any way.

Their car pulled forward a bit, and I saw that he was with his mom. At the time I thought this eliminated any chance of me being able to say or do anything, so I didn’t. Now that I think about it, I should have just walked up to the car, knocked on the window, and said politely “I would appreciate it if you would please stop giving me the middle finger. Thank you” without even looking at the mom, and then walked away.

That kid would have gotten his ass beat so badly when he got home.

Dear Kid Who Wears Shorts in the Winter,

What the hell are you doing?

I see you on campus every day, and it’s always the same story with you. You speed walk past everyone else in your khaki shorts and flimsy gray t-shirt, with arms held close to your body, and hands tucked into your pockets. Hey, asshole, you wouldn’t have to walk around like that if you would just wear clothes.

I’ve considered the fact that maybe I don’t know the whole story. It’s possible that your next class cranks the heat up to 90 degrees, or that you’re on your way to compete in a friendly tennis match. I’ve decided that it’s more likely that you’re just a douche.

What are you trying to accomplish? The only people who look tough doing this are, well, not you.

You sold your winter clothes for Ramen Noodles, didn’t you? You poor bastard.

Dear Couple that Naps Together on the Lawn Outside of Linthicum,

What the hell are you doing?

Don’t you have a bed somewhere? Do you have back problems or something? Hey dude, I know that the fresh earth can provide firm support, but somehow I feel like having a girl laying on your chest cavity would cancel out all the benefits. Dump her and buy a Sleep Number.

It’s cute in a way, but also disgusting. I’d estimate the disgusting to cute ratio at about 90-10. For every instant that I feel happy for you, I want to vomit nine times.

I’m especially happy for whichever one of you suggested doing that the first time. Happy that the other didn’t have you committed to an institution.

I haven’t seen you in a while, so I assume you’ve gone into hibernation for the winter. Your roommates hate both of you.

Dear Every Campus Group Ever,

I know what you’re doing, and please stop.

Thanks. Now I can never use the steps under the Lecture Hall ever again because you camp out there to recruit people. Can’t you camp out somewhere else, where no one ever goes? Like the football games?

I want to get a shirt that just says NO in big, bold, red letters. No I don’t want to join your group, no I don’t want to give you money, no I don’t know how to get to wherever you’re going on campus, no I don’t want fries with that, no I don’t want to come to the board to solve the problem, no I don’t know how to solve it, no I didn’t do the reading, no I’m not on drugs, no I won’t stop sleeping in class.

I was walking over to 7-11 just now, not ten minutes ago, when a woman handed me a folded piece of paper.
 
Earlier in the day I had been asked by this young-intellectual looking sort of guy, on the same corner outside of 7-11, if I had a minute “for the environment.” I did, in fact, have a minute for the environment but I know what he really meant was “Do you have money that you are willing to give me for the environment?” The answer to THAT question was “no.”
 
Anyways I assumed this lady was affiliated with the guy from earlier, so I accepted her pamphlet and kept walking as I still didn’t have any money for the environment. As soon as I unfolded it, however, I realized that A) she certainly wasn’t associated with any sort of environmental organization and B) I had seen some of her literature before, posted on telephone poles around Towson. This time, I decided to take a minute and read it… for shits and giggles. Having read it all the way through, all I have to say is….. WOW.
 
If you want to read the whole thing (I just HAD to type it up), just scroll down a little bit. It’s kind of long, but quite entertaining if you persevere. Do yourself a favor and read to the end.
 
The paper is covered front and back by a very “fuck the government” style handwriting. On each side, the text is framed on the top and bottom by quotes; two from Frederick Douglass, one each from Ida B. Wells and W.E.B. DuBois.
 
I mean… I could try to explain the absurdity of this thing but you really have to read it yourself. It requires no additional commentary from me. It’s two pages worth of mind terrorism, secret government technologies, involuntary surgery to implant nano-chips into people’s brains, and something about the KKK. What’s really funny, though, is that having read the entire thing I have absolutely NO IDEA what this is supposed to be about. I’m not so much scared for my safety/privacy as I am tempted to go watch the Matrix again. And then do shrooms. And then separate the frontal lobe of my brain with a hammer and chisel. Perhaps then I’ll understand.
 
Anyways, here it is. Unedited for your reading pleasure. I’m doing my part to spread the word.

“Every device is adopted to make slaves of free men and rob them of their wages.” - Ida B. Wells
 
Various measures are being used to terrorize and enslave targeted victims, as well as to prevent others from interfering in the crimes or even helping the victims. Many people call these types of terrorist crimes “mind control.” After all, isn’t the fear or paranoia the victim experiences in the mind? Who, in this day and age, could agree to live as a criminal “slave,” unless they were brainwashed or something?! And how could anyone see evidence of terrorist crimes such as torture, and then fail to step forward, offer to help the victims, and speak out in defense of human rights, unless something were wrong with their minds?
 
In fact, those committing these crimes consider nearly everything they do to be part of a “terror and mind control plan.” Their methods include the terror tactics favored by the Ku Klux Klan prior to their defeat by our Civil Rights Movement. When you make an in depth study of the old K.K.K. white supremacist style of terror and control, you will clearly see that it is the same as that being used against us today. The only difference is that today’s terror and control tactics are likely to also employ criminal “slaves” using computors for remote control technology. Other terror and mind control tactics in use are designed either to drive the victim insane, make the victim seem insane, or deceive the victim into believing that he or she is being subjected to telepathy, voodoo, haunted by ghosts, or having other false supernatural experiences. One of the major terror/mind-control methods in use involves miniature short-wave receivers placed behind the skull. This is how the “slaves” receive their orders and also how many of the victims are driven insane. In addition, a reduced volume voice, broadcast into the head, is perceived by the victim as a thought. This is called thought implantation.
 
“To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary to have their minds occupied with thoughts and aspirations short of the liberty of which they are deprived.” - Frederick Douglass
 
“We may no longer dodge or hesitate. We must all, black or white, Northerner or Southerner, stand in the light and speak plain words.” - W.E.B. DuBois
 
Many people want to help get the truth about these crimes of torture and terror out in the open, but feel confused about how to go about doing it. In fact, telling the truth is surprisingly simple and with practice, daring to make the effort becomes easier. With enough experience, your fear will fade so much that speaking out, posting flyers and handing out literature will seem natural to you. You can even begin by copying this information, handing it out, and discussing it with your coworkers, family, and friends. Everyone has a right to know that they are being subjected to these surgical procedures, that remote control technology is being used to torture, rape, and kill, and about other crimes against humanity.
 
Whenever these crimes are the topic of your conversation, be sure to speak as loudly and clearly as possible. That way, you can even make an impact on anyone in the vicinity, even those who are too fearful and shy to speak with you. And some of them will mention what they heard you say to their family and friends.
 
If you are one of the guilty individuals who made the mistake of becoming enslaved and found yourself involved in committing these crimes, then you probably have concrete evidence (such as a click box, puppetting gear, synthetic skin, bone-plaster, and etc.) in your possession. In that case, you are in a position to do even more for the cause of human rights and freedom. Once all this is out in the open, you could be arrested for possessing these things, but now, if you step forward, tell the truth and show the evidence, you will be rewarded with respect and gratitude. Because no one appreciates being a slave, others who feel trapped in that evil and ugly lifestyle will follow your example.
 
“I can tell you what I have seen with my own eyes, felt on my own person, and know to have occurred in my own neighborhood.” - Frederick Douglass

There’s this guy who sits right in front of an ATM on York Road every single day. He’s there every time I walk to work and he’s almost always still there when I walk home.
 
The dude just sits on the wall there and watches people pass by. He used to hit me up for change back in the day, but I think he eventually started to recognize me and realize that I wasn’t going to pay out to him.
 
He’s an older black guy, kind of chubby; usually wearing denim. I’ve seen people stop and talk to him before, so I guess he’s made a few friends. Which is surprising for someone who wears a lot of denim.
 
I don’t generally have a problem with him now that he doesn’t ask me for money anymore, but he does irk me in one unique way. Every time I walk by he initiates small talk with me, which is fine, but EVERY time, the conversation goes the exact same way.
 
Him: “How’s it going, man?”
Me: “I’m good, how are you?”
 
Waaaaiiiit for it.
 
Him: *Siiiiiigh* “I’m okay I guess.”
 
I swear I’ve had this exact exchange with him no less than half a dozen times. Here’s the thing though… I’m reeeeeeally not interested. I don’t care how deeply he sighs or how melancholy he sounds when he tells me he “guesses he’s okay.” I honestly have no desire to stop and talk to this dude and find out his story, so I just keep walking.
 
I guess I can’t blame him for being honest; maybe his life sucks. Doesn’t mean I have to hear about it, though.

I had my first day of training today as a server at the Towson Diner.
 
I’ve been trying for so long to land a serving job, if by trying I mean sitting around hoping one lands in my lap. It’s funny how when I finally go out and APPLY for one, I get one. Makes no sense.
 
At about 4pm I showed up at the diner in my freshly bought uniform (white button down and black slacks). You supply your own uniform there, including the nametag which was news to me. I hope “My Name Is:” stickers are acceptable.
 
I sat there looking through the menu, which is enormous, for about an hour when the manager finally paired me up with a server named Zach. Basically, I was going to shadow him for the night, learn the basics, and take some tables on my own if I felt up to it.
 
I’ll be honest; it’s a little overwhelming. Before today I figured it couldn’t be that hard to remember what was going on with… say… three tables. If I had a penny for everytime I had to ask Zach “where is this dish going again?” I’d have like, well, 5 pennies or so. Not to mention all the menu shit you have to remember, and figuring out how to use the archaic computer. It’s gonna take some time.
 
There was one particularly notable incident tonight though that may come to set the tone for working evenings at the Diner. I had shadowed enough that Zach decided to let me take some tables on my own, as long as he was there to back me up. Around 9 o’clock, this guy walks in and gets seated at our section. He’s a tall guy, kind of lanky, short hair and a goatee. I approached his table and introduced myself.
 
Me: “Hey how are you doing tonight sir? My name’s Evan, I’ll be helping to take care of you. It’s my first day here, training, so go easy on me.”
Him: “Oh, that’s great Evan. You’re doing great.”
 
He was very soft-spoken and had a very friendly demeanor about him. There was something about him though that set off some red flags. The overwhelming gentleness of his voice combined with his using my name excessively gave me the impression that he was a little off.
 
Him: “I’ll tell you what, Evan. I’m just gonna start off with a regular coffee aaaaaaand… a slice of oreo cheesecake. Can you do that for me, Evan?”
Me: “Sure thing. I’ll be right back with that for ya.”
Him: “Oh wait, one more thing. Do you have a phonebook I could use?”
 
I tracked down a phonebook for him and brought it along with his coffee.
 
Him: “Oh great, Evan. Thank you so much.”
Me: “I’ll be right back with your cheesecake.”
Him: “Take your time, Evan. Take your time.”
 
The guy sat there for a while, just eating his cheesecake, drinking his coffeee, and highlighting shit in the phonebook. I came by a few times to refill the coffee for him, and he was continually overly pleasant. After a while, I asked Zach what he thought the guy was doing.
 
Zach: “I don’t know man, we get some crazies here.”
 
I went to refill his coffee for the last time at about 9:35, when he finally answered my questions.

Him: “Say, Evan. I noticed you guys are pretty close to the jail here. Do you ever get guys come in who, say, just got out of jail… for something they didn’t do… and have nowhere to go? No one to call?”
Me: “Uhh… actually…”
Him: “Because that’s what I’ve been doing here, Evan. I’m looking for some place to go.”
Me: “Well you know there’s a lot of really good hotels arou…”
Him: “Evan, generally people who have just gotten out of jail don’t have a lot of money.”
 
At this point Zach jumped in and recommended a few good shelters/hospitals in the area. The guy thanked us and introduced himself as Gary. He went on to tell us his story.
 
Gary: “I used to own a company around here and I was doing really well. Then I hurt my back and everything fell apart. I got my prescription from the pharmacy one day, and I was driving home and I got pulled over. Turns out my bottles weren’t labeled and I got arrested for trafficking narcotics. I spent 2 months in the detention center. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
 
Eventually a friend of his came and met him and they left together.
 
I’m not sure how much of his story I believe. I’m inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt, but if he grew up here, had a family here, owned a company here… would he really have no one to call after just 2 months? I don’t know.
 
I’m sure there will be more where that came from.
 
EDIT: I no longer work there. Creative differences. You know how it is.

People will often remind me how lucky I am to live where I live. I have a pretty cool house right in the middle of Towson, less than a block away from the movie theater and all the bars. Usually, I am inclined to agree with them about how awesome my place is, but occasionally the house comes with its baggage. If you happen to be jealous at all of where my roommate and I live, this might give you an idea of some of the weird shit you have to deal with here… and maybe you’ll rethink things.
 
First of all, there was the non-homeless homeless guy, then of course all of the nonsense with Walter and Rowdy. Well, ladies and gentlemen, there’s a new woman in my life and her name is Heidi.
 
A few people were over the other night, and in the middle of our shindig Walter knocked on our door, it was time for his semi-weekly crab donation. Behind him there was some nasty strung out chick laying on his porch table moaning something about being sick.
 
Walter: “Hey man do you guys want some crabs?”
Me: “Of course.”
Walter: “Cool man, I’m just gonna run to 7-11 to get some vitamin water and I’ll bring ‘em right over. Oh yeah, can you help this lady?”
 
His tone made it sound like she was a friend of his, so I felt a little obligated to ask her what was going on. I asked if she wanted a glass of water. She responded, “Yea… some water or a beer… anything.”
 
Uhh, okay.
 
I brought her a cup of water, only when I came back from the kitchen she was standing on our porch peering through the screen door. She was a middle aged white woman with buck teeth and glasses wearing what looked like just a big t-shirt. As I handed her the cup of water she started mumbling something about her son.
 
Heidi: “I need to talk to my son. I need to see my son.”
Me: “What? Where’s your son?”
Heidi: “Right there!” (Pointing inside our house)
 
Oh Lord.
 
I gave her the cup of water and went back inside, basically waiting for Walter to come back, give up crabs, and make her go away. She made herself comfortable in the meantime, staking out on the porch-couch.
 
Walter came back a few minutes later and handed us a big bag of crabs through the giant hole in the screen door. Heidi tried to ask him something, but he blew her off with a “Nope, sorry,” and disappeared around the side of his house. Apparently she’s not a friend of his.
 
Well, shit. Now my roommate and I have to deal with her.
 
We consulted briefly and then went out to confront her. As we stepped onto the porch she looked up from the couch.
 
Heidi: “Where can I get some pills? I just need some pills.”
 
Props to my roommate here, he was pretty firm with her. He told her we couldn’t get any pills for her and that she needed to leave, and she hit the road without too much of a fuss.
 
The next hour or so went without incident. We saw her walking around outside back and forth, clearly without anywhere to go. But as long as she wasn’t on our porch it didn’t really matter.
 
Eventually the whole crowd made its way to the porch to enjoy the evening air, wary that she might still be out there. Not long after, Heidi comes back from out of nowhere and takes a seat on Walter’s porch right next to us. Obviously it was awkward; she just sat there mumbling stuff and asking us questions that we ignored. Her weirdness peaked, though, with an incident that I will never forget as long as I live, and I’ll do my best to describe it here.
 
Our porch is separated from Walter and Rowdy’s porch by a rail. Our friend was sitting in a chair leaning against said rail, with Heidi sitting behind him on the other porch. Out of nowhere, the crazy bitch gets up, leans over our friend from beind, and PLANTS A KISS ON HIS FOREHEAD. Then she mumbled something and sat down again.
 
Try to fucking imagine that. Some of us laughed, some of us just sat there in utter astonishment.
 
My roommate actually wasn’t on the porch when this happened, and when I told him a few minutes later we decided to call the cops on her. Yeah, she probably wasn’t dangerous, but I’ll be damned if she was gonna spend the night on our porch. The thought of her puttering around outside my house at night, eating children or casting spells or whatever it is that she does, gives me the willies. Better to get her ass out before she tries to slip someone the tongue.
 
I grabbed my phone and realized that I had never called the cops before. My roommate agreed that it wasn’t an emergency and that we should just call 311…. which doesn’t exist anymore apparently. I called it like 3 times and I kept getting a voice that said the call could not be completed. Well thanks for telling me, assholes.
 
I ended up calling 911 and telling them that I had a problem, but it wasn’t an emergency. They gave me a different number to call (410-887-2222 if you’re interested). I’m sorry but I like 311 a lot better. I told them that there was a crazy strung out woman on my porch and that she wouldn’t leave. The operator told me that the next available officer would be at the house.
 
I cleared the porch of beers and waited on the porch for the cops. While I was waiting she asked where the nearest hospital was. Maybe she wanted help but in hindsight she probably just wanted easy access to pills. An officer arrived after a couple of minutes and I walked to the top of the steps to speak with him.
 
He asked me what the problem was, and I basically just told him that the woman was strung out and needed help, somewhere to go.
 
Heidi: “Why’d you go and call them? I’m just out here havin’ a cigarette break.”
Officer: “Where are you staying tonight, ma’am?”
Heidi: “Right here. I live here.”
 
He turned to me and I just shook my head “no.”
 
He kept interrogating her and she tried to convince him that she lived there with her husband (who’s name was Terry McDougle, in case you were wondering). She also told him like 5 times that her son committed suicide. He asked for her name and ID (this is when we found out her name was Heidi), and she said that her ID had been stolen, conveniently. And of course she didn’t have keys to the house that she supposedly lived in. The officer knocked on the door but Walter didn’t answer or wasn’t home.
 
He took me aside and I told him about some of the weird things she had done that night, although I left out the kissing incident. I was 100% positive, I told him, that she didn’t live there in any way, shape, or form. Because she was on Walter’s property and Walter wasn’t home, there wasn’t anything he could do. But he did do his best to be helpful.
 
Officer: “Just go ahead and ignore her. If she gives you any problems, call me back and I’ll run her off. When Walter gets home, if he wants her gone I’ll run her off no problem. I believe what you’re saying, she’s obviously on something, but there’s not much I can do without him home. I’m on duty until 6am, so if there’s any problems I’ll be back to handle it.”
 
While we were talking on the front lawn she yelled out something about me eyeing her up like she was some sort of “tramp.”
 
After the cop left, she didn’t stick around for too long (Thank God) before she ended the awkwardness and moved on herself.
 
Still want to live here?

Wow. It’s funny that I chose to write a little update about Walter and Rowdy yesterday, because last night they added a pretty significant event to their saga. This one, though, is far from funny. More like disturbing, scary, and insane.
 
I was up late last night; just sitting on my computer, listening to music, wackin’ it, whatever. Right as I was about to go to sleep (around 4am), I heard some shit moving around next door. Nothing crazy, just random thumps and whatnot. This isn’t all that unusual when living in a duplex, but once I heard voices through the walls I became nosey and wanted to know if something was going on. I turned off my fan (aka The Wind Machine), turned off the music, and put my ear to the wall. This is what I heard:
 
Rowdy: “… 4 in the morning, you God damn heroin addict. I gotta work tomorrow. Get the fuck out of here. GET OUT OF HERE!”
 
**Silence for a few seconds**
 
Rowdy: “If you don’t get out of here I’m gonna beat your ass. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! STAY AWAY FROM ME! AHHHHH!!!!!!!”
 
My heart was flying the fuck out of my chest. I didn’t know what the hell was going on next door. I was right about to call the cops when I heard Rowdy say, rather dismissively, something again about “God damn heroin addict.” So I figured he hadn’t been murdered or anything.
 
It was silent again, but for a few minutes this time. I sat on my bed waiting to see if something would develop. It looked like the episode was over at first, and right as I was about to call it a night, the voices and thumping started up again.
 
Rowdy: “Put that fucking knife down. Stay away from me you God damn heroin addict. STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME WITH THAT KNIFE!!!!”
 
I grabbed my phone, ready to call the cops. But through the wall I heard that Rowdy had the same idea.
 
Rowdy: “…… 21 East Chesapeake Avenue. My roommate’s coming after me with a knife, he’s fucking wasted. Please hurry man. Please hurry.”
 
Honestly, I feel like an idiot now. I should have done something, maybe gone over there and knocked on the door or something. I really didn’t want to get involved with a crazy man on heroin wielding a knife, but it was really just luck that Rowdy didn’t get stabbed.
 
The cops showed up pretty quickly, three cars strong. And that’s where the story ends. I couldn’t fucking believe it. When they got there no one was yelling, no one argued, no one got arrested. They were there for like 15 minutes, and as they were getting ready to leave they stood outside and were shooting the shit with eachother, laughing and whatever before they left in their separate cars. It was so bizarre.
 
Guess that answers a few questions about Walter.

I moved into my place on New Years Day this year, January 1st. The landlord told me a middle aged guy named Walter lived next door, that he had been living here a long time, and that he works at night. That was all I knew about Walter for the entire semester. Five months I lived next to the guy and never spoke a word to him.
 
Somewhere in that time period, I met Rowdy who would eventually become my neighbor as well. You may remember an incident I documented called Rowdy and Me. Well, that was him.
 
Once Will moved in, we started to suspect that Walter was a drug dealer… and honestly that’s still very possible. Random ass people show up at the house looking for him at all hours of the night, he clearly smokes weed, everyone in Towson seems to know who he is, etc.
 
It was kind of cool having this mysterious neighbor who may or may not be a drug dealer and may or may not be running an underage prostitution ring out of his basement…. I mean we just didn’t know. Dude could be crazy.
 
Once summer rolled around though, and Rowdy moved in with him (instead of me, thank God), Walter became the greatest neighbor ever. On three separate occasions he has come over and given me a big bag of cooked and seasoned crabs. He bought a leather couch for his house, but can’t fit it in the door so he left it on our porch for us to use in the meantime (it’s the greatest thing ever, been there about five days now). I even got a free computer desk for my room through him. It’s too bad I don’t smoke bud, he could probably hook me up.
 
While Walter is busy being awesome and giving us free stuff, Rowdy provides some ocassional entertainment value by telling us stories of his time on the streets, describing old Towson, trying to booty call girls from my phone (I swear, just the other night he asked to borrow my phone and he calls up this girl Kim while he sits on the porch. He said something along the lines of “Hey baby. Come visit me girl, I miss you. I’ll throw you money for a hack.” It was three in the morning.) and banging some other blonde chick who may or may not be missing a leg.
 
Oh yeah, you know the guy who plays the trumpet across the street from Towson Commons? Rowdy kicked his can over and stomped on it a few months back. He hates that guy with a passion, and he’ll gladly tell you all about it…. even if you don’t ask.