Not so Fat Albert

Albert was the first neighbor I met when moving into the new place. Albert was about middle aged, and didn’t really fit in well. He drove a beat up Cadillac and never seemed to go to work. Albert also managed to leave his door open and blare hip hop music over the parking lot.

Albert first made his presence known as he sat on his second floor deck and watched us unload the moving truck. Literally. The man probably eyeballed every box and item we unloaded. He managed to ask my roommate for a trip to check cashing place because he was too drunk to drive. Two days later I had my first and last official run in with him.

I had kept my niece that Friday since I had the day off and she was out of school. My sister came to pick her up at 3 and had left when I get a phone call; apparently they were still in the parking lot and she needed help. I freaked out and ran downstairs, blowing past a laughing Albert as he sat below the second floor landing watching events unfold. In the parking lot my sister was talking to a strange black woman. I walked up and the woman turned to me.

“Oh my God! Theresa is this your brutha? Nice to meet you Theresa’s brutha! Me and her been friends a looong time.” I took one look at this woman, and the first word that sprang to mind was “crack whore”. There was a flaky whiteness around her mouth/nose. Her hair was wild, and she was wearing shorts, tank top, and flip-flops. She sniffled a lot, and I don’t think she was in need of some Benedryl.

I turned to my sister and told her Michelle had called and was waiting on them. My niece, ever happy to play along chimed in with “Oh boy we’re going to Aunt Chel’s house!”. My sister fled, and I began walking toward the building with the crack whore following me. She rambled on about how she was trying to get Theresa to give her a ride, and she needed to check on her baby, etc. I knew better, but I had to ask.

“So uh…how did you two meet?”
“Oh we met a looong time ago, downtown. I haven’t seen your sister in forever! What’s your name? I know Theresa told me but I done forgot”
“I’m sorry to hear that”
“Say, you got a car?”
“Nope, my roommate is at work in it.”
“How about a phone?”
“Nope, just moved in. No service yet.”

By this point, we were starting up the stairs, and Albert was watching us both. We get to the landing and she starts in again.

“So which one you live in?”
“One on the third floor.”
“You aren’t being too specific.”
“Nope, I’m not. Have a nice day.”

At this point Albert stands up and tells her to get back in the house. I go on upstairs and lock the door to call my sister.

It turns out, the Albert had apparently picked up this crack whore downtown, and brought her back out here. She got here and freaked out, and was trying to leave or call someone to come get her. She never would tell me why she gave the woman her name.

One call to the front office later, and Albert was told to move. Apparently this wasn’t the first complaint against him (surprise!).

A Moving Story, Part 3

Part 1 of the story is here.
Part 2 of the story is here.

So the stage was set. Steak? Check. Booze? Check. Friends? Check. Lots of shit needing to be unpacked? Check. I was forgetting something… Oh right. I didn’t own a grill.

Grill/groceries/booze and two hours later we were ready. Park and Michelle were on the deck trying to figure out how to assemble the grill when the instructions consisted of only pictures. We setup a two stage unloading process; one team unloaded the truck to the parking lot, the other carried it up the stairs. Thanks to four extra sets of hands, we managed to get everything unloaded before 8. It came time to cook, but everyone refused to light the grill. It’s not that I didn’t trust Park or my sister, it’s just that I had a strong desire to live to see tomorrow. We all cowered behind the furniture during the first test light. Layla took over the cooking of the steaks while the rest of us tried to recover from the repeated trips up and down the stairs.

It was after dinner that we met some of the neighbors. Specifically, Albert. Albert is a middle aged man who lives across the hall and one floor down. Albert doesn’t really fit in with many of the residents as he has a tendency to leave his door open blaring hip hop loud enough to be heard from the parking lot. Albert first came around when Jeff was unloading his car. Apparently Albert had been drinking and asked Jeff to give him a ride to “that there check cashing place”. Jeff mumbled something and promptly ran.

After all the drama of the move, the unloading was probably the easiest part. Unpacking would take weeks: I slept on a love seat for the first week before I could work up the energy to go buy a new mattress and bed. Jeff and I learned a lot though:

1. You’ll have crazy neighbors wherever you go
2. Save time and energy. Hire movers.
3. Never underestimate your friends. Especially their ability to move your belongings while drinking.
4. Lemon pepper is probably not the best seasoning for steak. But whatever works.
5. Don’t wait until 1am to take a shower after unloading. What do you mean there’s no hot water? Yeah, the hot water heater is outside. I don’t know why the pilot won’t light. Yes I’m doing it right.
6. To have hot water, it helps to call and connect gas service. The apartment complex maintenance guy will laugh at you otherwise.
7. The nice lady at the gas company will put a rush on your order if you give her your heart rending tale of multiple cold showers.
8. Always make sure your heat works when you move in. Several weeks into our first month the temperature dipped into the 20s. It got cold.

A Moving Story, Part 2

Part 1 of the story is here.

Apparently Destiny didn’t put up much of a fight, or the colander Jeff wore on his head had some extra-ordinary properties that gave him an edge in battle. Either way we ended up being doomed to pack and move our shit ourselves after all. I was ready to blow a fuse when my landlady announced we had to repaint the place before we could leave; we (I) had done some renovations to the place (mostly just some new paint and ceiling fans), and I most certainly was NOT going to spend my weekend and money repainting those walls over. I was ready to just duck out on it when my next door neighbor Robin tells me that she was moving in, she liked the paint job, and she wanted it as is. Our landlady warned her she would have to paint it when she left, but apparently she was planning to duck out like me. I guess that’s classified as a win/win/lose.

Now one of the reasons we ended up moving ourselves was Jeff’s debit card got stolen (and abused) over the weekend, so financing the move became extremely tricky. We tried contacting a discount place, Two Men and a Mule but never got an estimate. Maybe they were on siesta. Maybe they didn’t move gringos. Maybe they weren’t even Mexican. Most likely they didn’t like the sound of “moving from a two story townhouse to third floor loft”. I know I sure didn’t like it. Damn my honesty.

The next morning dawned clear and cool, so we we headed over to UHaul to snag a truck. It put us a bit behind schedule, as we got distracted by the two employees making fun of their boss getting a colonoscopy that day. So with the help of our dedicated friend Park we began loading the 24 foot UHaul at around 11.

And loading.
And loading.

And loading some more. It quickly became apparent that we had slightly underestimated exactly how much junk we had to move. Thank god I had given away my queen sized bed frame, mattresses, futon, and futon chair. I went so far as to throw my coffee table and nightstand into a dumpster, which I’m betting was “rescued” by some of my old neighbors not too long afterwards. I was that desperate about not wanting to move it. By the time it was all loaded and we drove to the new place, it was almost four and people were expected to show at six to help us unload. We were dirty, stinky, and exhausted from carrying things down from the second floor of the townhouse: the last thing we wanted to do was carry it up to the third floor at the new place by ourselves. We drove the UHaul over, made a few car trips to get last minute bits, and then settled down for a break. My sister showed up not too long after so we hit the store for steak and beer to bribe my future impromptu movers with…

A Moving Story, Part 1

It’s not what you think.

I’ve posted a few times in the past about my neighbors. It’s a classic love hate relationship: I love to hate them. I probably shouldn’t make such a broad statement as some of them have been pretty good, but for the most part they’ve been really bad. This part of town began slipping down the slippery slope of ghetto-ness in the three years since I’ve moved here, and it’s time to move on. I’ve ignored it as long as possible (I hate moving with a passion, and I tend to combine the moving experience with deep spring cleaning). I’ve also come to associate it with massive upheaval my life, something similar to Army brat syndrome maybe.
Since I’ve lived here, I’ve seen:

* 1 fight in the parking lot over food stamps (With real police action)
* 1 bounty hunter taking a guy away while his four year old daughter stood there and cried.
* Countless screaming matches (Now with and without police!)
* One wreck in the parking lot. The girl’s brakes failed and she managed to clip my old Geo convertible before slamming into the front brick wall and collapsing half. (Once again guest starring the police!)
* One hurricane (In my defense I was at the office most of the time, no problems there. Unsure if the police came).
* One guy arrested for various things, some real some not. (Yes police came, and yes it was me).
* One guy arrested for murder of a gay man at another apartment complex.
* One guy arrested for failing to register as a sex offender.
* One family of racoons run out and shot for setting off a burglar alarm constantly.
* One tree falling into the buildling as three idiots tried to cut it down and managed to pull it INTO the building instead of away.
* One lesbian couple making up after one of the screaming matches mentioned above.
* I got a roommate.

So yeah, It’s been an unforgettable three years: not in a Nat King Cole kind of way mind you, more of a post-9/11 sort of unforgettable. Traumatic, if you will. I’ve said I always try to live my life with no regrets, and it’s hard to say I regret living here. I do some, but it was a good place when I needed it. Had the neighborhood not gotten steadily worse I might have stayed longer.

So the packing has begun once more. It seems like Jeff was just moving in. Who can believe it was six months ago? Not I. We were originally planning to move it all ourselves (with help from friends to unpack) but after realized that the new place was on the third floor, and that it’s going to rain on the moving day it became increasingly clear fate was pushing us toward hiring movers. Who am I to fight destiny?