Moody Meow

I was strolling about Colonialtown last night, after class and before dinner, when I came upon two staggering people. I wear glasses. I couldn’t see what they looked like or how old they were. I thought it was two kids, goofing off, smacking each other playfully and pushing one another across the street. The interaction looked slow and easy. The boy I thought I saw carried something. A skateboard? The clink of metal gave me a clue, but I wondered why he carried it instead of skating around. Puck started to pull at his leash, yanking my arm forward a bit too much. I pulled back, he settled in, and the two “kids” were in clear view. A man in his 40’s and a woman in her late 50’s stared at me with their matching bloodshot eyes. Neither spoke to me at first. They muttered. Neither dog liked this and pulled the opposite way, back to the house.

“11 Hampton,” she reached out to me as the whispered with a water voice. Her half blonde, mostly dirty gray head wobbled on a thin stalk of a neck. Her skin looked like dark leather. It hung from her jawbone like a sheet. Jeans with dirty knees, a stained coral shirt, no bra (she sagged in all the wrong places), broken flip-flops, I had the feeling that she’d slept under bridge with the dirt and the other forgotten trash from the city. Her companion hovered like a blue ghost over her left shoulder.
“I’m sorry I don’t know that address.” I tried to smile, but they were both obviously far beyond the shade of reality.

Her eyes crossed as she leaned closer to me, before stumbling a bit to the right. I was surprised when she didn’t fall, and managed to stabalize the ground beneath her feet. “11 Hampton…..” I shook my head. I sensed her trying to focus on my concerned face. She kept pointing at me, and seemed unbalanced by the weight of her wrist in the air.
Her companion, a man who towerd beyond 6″, tried to manage his own battle between his drunken body and the insistent forces of gravity. I didn’t see him as much as feel him, but I kept one part of my attention on him, even while trying to reason with the intoxicated lady. What I thought was a skateboard was actually a mesh laundry bag filled with tin cans. His blue Bronco’s t-shirt swam on his narrow frame. I think he was barefoot. I know he was drunk.

I tried to walk away from the two of them. The empty streets made me nervous and the dogs seemed eager to move on. So I said “Have a nice day” and turned to walk away. They followed me.  I don’t know why. For three blocks they bounced between the street and houses, clumsily exploring abandoned recycle bins, before falling back into my wake. Fear stirred, and my nose began to sweat. I didn’t really want to run, my back a little tight from the walk, but we ran. They stumbled after me, but I lost them near Ferncreek Elementary. I crossed Ferncreek, knowing the houses on that side (behind the rec center) have lots of porches where people sit and socialize. We jogged down beyond the center, and I saw the couple near the school. We turned the corner, and I finally exhaled.

I have no problem with the homeless, nor with drunks. I think more than anything, their incoherant insistance and slow, but wierd pursuit unnerved me. If I lived in the heart of downtown, I would expect that, and be prepared for those kinds of interactions. It seemed out of place in the middle of Colonialtown.  I told D my tale. It’s just another in the line of wierd and unsettling stuff that have happened in our neighborhood. Others include:

• A carjacking chase that ended at the intersection of Mills and Nebraska. The cops ended up killing the guy.
• A murder on Virgina, right behind the Octopuss gas station.
• My neighbor’s car being rummaged through.
• A series of burglaries in our neighborhood.
• An increasing number of people hauling ass through our neighborhood.
• A cyclist hit by an SUV at Nebraska and Virgina (D saw the remnants of that accident - the cyclist was okay).

Those are just the things that I remember. I’m not known for my memory.

I still don’t know where 11 Hampton is…