that, my friend, is how they shoot you.

the glorious N

I don't live in the greatest part of town. Well, that might be the wrong way to put it. I live in a good part of town with: lots of restaurants; a decent proximity to school, entertainment and the occasional festival; the air of downtown while still have some quiet at night. All in all, it's not bad. But it is sort of, to use a white euphemism, "transitional." There's been stuff stolen from here (previous to my stay and before the doors automatically locked) and you'll see a crackie or two scampering beneath the street lights. So, when I hear weird things outside my door, I don't tend to open up to let it in my house.

Saturday night I went upstairs for my nightly feeding and noticed a bright light under the door. I dismissed the idea of aliens coming to abduct me when I heard people talking outside. But they were voices I didn't recognize (from strangers). There was also a series of horrible bass-ridden songs competing with their conversation. I came to the conclusion, based on my small amount of evidence, that someone's headlights were pointed straight at the front of our place and these cats were yakking it up on my pseudo-stoop.

What do you make of something like that? There's a car pointed toward your door, no one is knocking but people are talking amongst themselves outside? They're waiting for something. Or someone.

I should also mention a ridiculous part of my life. Once upon a time, in 2004, I dated a girl I probably shouldn't have and this led to one of the craziest phone interactions I've ever had with anyone in life. The girl I was "dating" (who had terrible taste in music) turned out to be a little ... how you say ... "married." The story of how this came to be is for another time but I will say this: her husband was stationed overseas and seemed pretty confident in the fact that he (who also had extremely poor taste in music) could send "Special Ops" after me (I'm a "quoting" fool today). He told me this over the phone, including things like I'd "better not sleep" and to "watch [my] back." Now, I'm a rational human being. I know that Special Ops is not going to come crashing down through my skylight any time soon. Really they have better things to do. But I'd be lying if it wasn't something in the back of my mind. If you can conceive it, it can happen.

So when I came back downstairs and heard our chained N, which hangs in front of our door, swinging as they tapped it, my mind started racing. I imagined a couple of guys blasting music and talking loudly outside my door so that I'd come outside angry and, more importantly, too frustrated to have armed myself. That's when two other guys, who'd been kneeling in front of the door the whole time with shotguns, open fire and blast me back into the table against the far wall. Fliers, bank statements and all other manner of mail fly into the air as I struggle to get my bearings, gasping for breath (they're Special Ops and they don't want me to die just yet). Mr. Mih -- this guy comes in, behalo'd by the bright Suburban headlights. He walks over to me in his best "I-love-the-smell-of-napalm-in-the-morning" saunter, puffing on the butt of a cigar. He leans over to be realize his "I did this to you" moment, a la the "Down Low" video by R. Kelly.

I'd be totally screwed! They would have the drop on me and what could I have done? Nothing. They're freaking Special Ops.

I talked to Ian later that night and relayed to him the story to which he agreed with my sentiment very scientifically. "Yes," he said. "That, of course is the scenario." When the sounds outside were gone I breathed a sigh of relief until Ian pointed out the dastardly scheme: "The noise was the red herring. They knew you wouldn't come out for that but wait until they left to survey the area for any damage or evidence to who it was. Clearly they're laying low for you to come outside."

What a ridiculous sentiment! Ha ha ha! I mean, come on!

I didn't go outside for the rest of the night.

At least the N was still there when I left the next morning.