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Monday, November 30, 2015

The Alcoholic White Junkie Kids Upstairs

You hate the upstairs neighbors.  

The sanctity of the Monday through Friday work week means nothing to them.  You hate the way the two guys ALWAYS stomp around like beasts in heavy, black boots.  The slutty girl is sexy and you even think about her sometimes during your weekly girlfriend/fiancée screw...but she is the worst one of them all.  You hate her the most when it is 3am and they are blasting crazy, Mexican music and she screams her blood curdling AYAY-YAY-YAY-YAY! or BRRRAAAAHAAAHAAA!  From punk music to that damn rap music or oddly enough - country music, the only thing you could say about their musical tastes is they always play it LOUD.  Plus, none of the degenerates in Unit D can walk quietly up the goddamn stairs like normal human beings.  And when they're up there, they seem to enjoy yelling, screaming and throwing furniture at each other.  

You both love and hate your Victorian residence in the Mission.  It is quaint and historical with stunning architecture.  This place is a million miles from the midwest suburb you escaped from when you got a wild hair up your ass and said California...The cost is very reasonable as you religiously pay your student loans, taxes, bills and rent.  And you are so tired of your girlfriend/fiancée wanting to move to Potrero.  

"Nancy and Keith live there and it is SO peaceful.  No crazy alcoholic junkie white kids upstairs.  Explain something to me, my dear.  How the HELL can they afford that place while we're stuck in this Mexican shack?!" your girlfriend/fiancée wails.

You are too tired after another fruitless shift as a DVD Duplicator 2000 salesman to explain.  Again.  It is all the goddamn credit you borrowed so your girlfriend/fiancée can take her fruitless, foreign massage classes.  You are too weary to justify how a halfway decent DVD Duplicator 2000 salesman might make great commissions if it wasn't for the darn economy.  
Your girlfriend/fiancée just looks at you like you're an asshole.  DVDs are the future you find yourself muttering to her in the middle of the night as the upstairs unit shudders, shakes and reverbs with heavy bass music and primal screaming.  

Oddly enough, weekends are never the nosiest times.  But every Tuesday night they seem to go insane.  Maybe a crazy fight between the tall guy and the girl.  Screaming, walls shaking, glass shattering.  Or maybe a party with way too many people JUMPING up and down until your girlfriend/fiancée calls the cops.  Or like when the homeless guy threw a garbage can through their window and ten cops showed up with guns.  Seriously.  What the heck is wrong with these people?  

The odds of living in the Mission WITHOUT a Mexican neighbor is like 10 to 1.  I guess you are lucky.  You live below the alcoholic, junkie white kids.  Or whatever the heck they are.  They are certainly not the family oriented, quiet, industrious Mexican people that make up most of the neighborhood.  That is for damn sure.

"Go tell them to be quiet!" growls your girlfriend/fiancée 1,000 times a month.

Yeah.  Screw that.  While meeting the girl with the purple, pink, black or blonde hair might be interesting, what if the other two freaks answer?  One time, the tall guy stood in the middle of the street and screamed at cars.  He threw beer bottles until the short, bald guy dragged him back upstairs.  Oh and the tall guy had a butcher knife!  Merciful Jesus Christ, what kind of people are these?  Definitely not normal.  


The only tenant that has the nerve to tell them to shut the heck up is Neela in Unit C.  For some reason, they listen to Neela.  But that crazy hippie woman blasts the Bee Gees and vacuums every goddamn day.  Probably because of her four cats.  The same four cats that crap under your bedroom window making sleep disgusting in the summer.  You are probably the only normal person in this subdivided, Victorian nightmare house.

Oh well.  After a quiet, seven Coors Light night you wake up next to your snoring girlfriend/fiancée with burbling, stomach acid and the usual regrets.  The leftover, microwaved, spaghetti last night was terrible.  Only frozen toaster waffles and instant coffee in the chilly, San Francisco morning gloom are there to comfort you.  But duty calls.  You mentally prepare your telephone sales pitch as you shave.  As you put the final touches on the 
DVD Duplicator 2000 salesman look, you hear them approach.

The tall guy and currently, pink-haired girl come stomping up the path with the rising sun at 7am.  No doubt back from one of their debauched outings.  And your day is just beginning.  The 7:22 am Muni to work awaits.  Just like every Monday through Friday.  Clockwork and steady.  You know this will pay off.  Soon?  Please Jesus?  

You can hear them bantering back and forth and laughing.  Very much wide awake like people who have not slept yet.  Drunk people on drugs.  No future but annoyingly happy.  For a moment, you can vaguely remember the good old days.  Days before reality kicked in and started kicking your butt.  Then, the girl sings in a high, clear voice, "Hey Mike: You know we've been noticing you've been having a lot of problems lately!"

What in Sam Hill...?  Your name is Mike.  You approach the double bolted, chained door and stare.


The male laughs and flicks a cigarette at your door as they stagger towards the stairs arm in arm.  My god, he is wearing more black eye liner than the girl and looks like a ghoul. 

"All I want is a Pepsi!" he laughs, squeezing the girl closer.  

As usual, the girl is barely dressed.  Black leather jacket, half shirt and tight jeans.  You notice her jeans hang obscenely low and your heart beats a little faster.  A gold chain dangles across her belly.  It flashes in the security lights like a lost dream.  They STOMP up the stairs in their cursed boots.  And you stare through the peephole for two reasons.  From the weird fisheye peephole angle you can watch them go up the first six steps that shake your apartment windows.  The way her breasts bounce up and down as she goes merrily up the stairs is reason enough.  Sometimes she doesn't wear a bra and has 
tits that stand up and say Hi!  Youth is definitely wasted on the young.
  
But the real reason is it is time to put your game face on.  A block walk to the Muni bus stop is waiting.  You do not want to come out in the salesman suit as the freaks parade by.  They always laugh when they see you.  

So you straighten your Wednesday, red-striped tie and swallow the last gulp of instant coffee.  As you check your mustache in the hall mirror for waffle crumbs, their stereo kicks in loud enough the vibrate your girlfriend/fiancée's porcelain Disney figurine collection.  The noise is muted through 100 year old wooden walls but you clearly hear and feel the thudding, reggae beat.  You saw only two people go up yet hear a whole chorus of drunks start screaming, "THINK YOU'RE IN HEAVEN BUT YOU'RE LIVING IN HELL!"

Amen to that.  Damn those alcoholic junkie kids upstairs.  But time to go.  Let the girlfriend/fiancée moan about this morning.  She needs to find a real job instead of whining all the time about money.  Another day awaits you.  

It's business time.