My apartment isn't exactly a theme park.
There's not much to do in Binghamton even when one ISN'T sick.
Thus, I have been relying on chance to offer me some amusement. Thankfully, it's been working.
Came home yesterday to find two strange men on my porch. I recognize them as friends of the insane people across the hall. Have I spoken of them yet? Among the building's secret gossip society (ie, me, my friend Chris, and the building manager), the insane people are known as The Gypsies. I'm not sure EXACTLY why, but I guess I can go with it. Anyway, The Gypsies have been tormenting me since they moved in last month.
First of all, they're dealers, and I DON'T mean Honda dealers, which pisses me right the hell off. While I'm not an anti-drug purist, I most CERTAINLY am an anti-dealer purist. A bit of a contradiction, yeah, maybe, but I've never met a hardcore dealer I liked. A little weed, maybe, here and there, maybe a few tabs of acid, but these people moved into my building so they could be near the high school and sell to the students. They also cut their weed up pretty well, so the kids they're selling to aren't even getting anything good. Assholes.
Second of all, they run through the building screaming their bloody lungs out. They bang on doors, they argue in the stairwell, they call each other all manners of Ebonics-inspired insults...
THIRD of all, and this is the worst: The Gypsies do not have a telephone or a doorbell. Thus, when guests come over, they ring MY doorbell. They're in Apartment 22, and I'm in 21, so I guess their guests reason that I'm the most likely to let them in? Beats the hell out of me... Anyway, people have taken to ringing my doorbell fourteen or fifteen times a day. I literally have not been able to lay down and take a nap for three hours without one of the Gypsies or their compadres ringing my bell and pleading to be let in. At first, I was sympathetic. Then, I began to get scared. Why was *I* always the one to let strangers into my building? The secret gossip society reported that the group was sleeping on blankets on the floor and intimated that the group had tendencies toward larceny. And *I* was supposed to let alleged thieves into the building? *I* am supposed to let KNOWN drug dealers into my building? Where I am safe and secure and terrified of my new neighbors?
Finally, I took it upon myself to play bouncer. No longer were these creeps going to invade my peaceful little abode. Of course, being a woman, and a particularly shrimpy one at that, slamming a door in a huge, scary man's face is not the easiest thing to do. But I've done it, and more than once.
Yesterday, as I was saying, two of the Gypsies were standing on the porch. I had to push by them to get to the door. "Scuse me? Scuse me, you? You goin' into the building?" one of them asked.
"Yeah," I retorted cruelly, "I LIVE here." The two guys on the porch are not paying to stay here; they're just regular sleep-over guests.
"Scuse me, don't take the sock out of the door," the bigger of the two commanded. He'd stuck a dirty tube sock in the doorway to keep it from locking behind them.
"You don't have keys?" I asked, pretending to be polite.
"If you ain't the landlord, you ain't got nothin' to bitch at us about," he said.
That did it. The guy stood about a foot over my head, not including his huge greasy afro. He was probably double my weight. But whatever. Yeah, so I'm a shrimp. Yeah, I'm a cute little feminine thing boasting the physical stamina of maybe a sparrow. Yeah, I'm sicker than a dog. But DAMMIT, I don't like drug dealers, and DAMMIT, I don't like assholes talking back to me. I removed the sock from the door, pitched it into the street, and yelled, "nope, ain't got NOTHIN' to say to you, Mister," before slamming the door in his face.
I could hear them cursing at me from outside, and I did use the chain on my door for the first time in case they somehow managed to get back in, but I was awfully proud of myself. Helena don't take no shit. Helena don't take no shit from NOBODY, even if they happen to be double her size.
Gahd, the things I rely on for entertainment.
Next, I found a little gift on my doorstep. It was secreted under my welcome mat: a Reader's Digest collection of four cheesy novels. Now this was weird. This was beyond weird. First of all, to get to my doorstep, you have to have a key, so my secret admirer -- or whatever -- had to be a resident of the building. Only, I don't KNOW that many people in the building. Just Chris, and Chris has better taste in literature than that. Upon scrutinizing the book more carefully, I found that the first novel had been quite marked up: numerous sentences and phrases had been underlined or circled. The novel was "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," by Mary Higgins Clark. Oddly, the underlined passages don't seem to have any cohesive patterns, and the other novels in the book are untouched.
A mystery!
Who is my mysterious benefactor? Why did they underline certain passages? What relevence do these passages have? Have I got a secret admirer? Is it from someone who heard I was ill and wanted to give me something to do? Why did they hide the book under my welcome mat?
Weird.
So, today, as I wait for the mail to come -- the mail is my absolute saviour from boredom -- I shall ponder the book mystery, and create further anti-The-Gypsies schemes... What fun!
Gahd, I want to get better quickly...
~Helena*