my bum 3: the bummening

Three posts in one day!? Thrillsville.

I've been gradually bringing this home, and now finally here we are. I currently live in eastern Durham, or as I like to call it, East-ass Durham. Now it's not quite the rectum of the city, and it's not the genitals either (I can't decide if Durham is a boy or a girl). Aiken Ave. is, I believe, the portion between the anus and the genitals. What's that called? I forget. For now we'll just call it East Durham. At any rate if the city were to receive an enema, Aiken would only meet with some messy runoff. Wow that got graphic quickly.

When I first moved in here, Sarah's dogs let me know how they felt about the neighbors. They advised me to tolerate, but certainly keep a comfortable distance. Displeasure should be expressed subtly upon greeting, but hostility should not be incurred. For the immediate neighbors, let's work with a convenient 3x3 grid with this house as the center. Moving clockwise from let's say... 10:30?
1: Immaculate lawn with lamp posts and ample lawn ornamentation. Anywhere else it would appear gaudy, but here it's downright luxurious. I've spoken with them once only while trying to figure out where a dog lived (I had it by the chain, which it had torn loose from its tie with about 6 ft of slack). Despite obviously speaking English, they mostly played mute. The tactic (which I also employ) "Stay the fuck out of it" was in full force.
2: The father has a picturesque mullet, memeworthy even. He was gone for six months or so last year for reasons unknown. The mother is a suspected dealer & frequently has sketchy guests at all times of day. They run a puppy mill in a 6x6 fence in their driveway. The dogs within hump each other constantly, to where the recipient affects a glassy, vacant acceptance. I actually doubt the dogs are officially mating (probably same sex), but the effect is eerily similar. The children are on the doorstep of juvie; the younger one frequently fires his fingers like a pistol at my car as I pull into the driveway. There is a painted cement dog ornament that is always being shifted around the yard and stoop as though it were not comfortable to sit in the same place daily.
3: This house had an elderly black couple when I moved in. The man claimed to have a camera attached to the side of his house that recorded the break-in of this house, but no evidence was ever produced. After they moved out, renters came in. There are often expensive cars parked in front, but I rarely see anyone. Some evenings I have seen a group of portly black women roosting on the stoop, but they don't appear to be conversing. They watch me intently, but I don't sense any hostility. This is the least active household (as far as I can tell).
4: Action house. Trauma house. Crack house. The woman who occupies it is a nice (if somewhat trashy) bank teller in her 60s. I believe she is married, but the husband is seldom around. Her daughter is... possibly in her 30s? Rhonda is the very epicenter of entropy in this neighborhood. She's a recovering (read: using slightly less) addict whom the police and EMT know by name. There was also an older woman, I'm assuming the grandmother, who died before I moved in. Sarah explains that she used to croak "Help!" from the back porch for menial tasks such as shuffling back into the house... to anyone who would answer. Rhonda knows by now not to ask me for things, because I routinely lie to her. Need the phone? Don't have one. Use their swimming pool? [I know, what the fuck? It's an above ground swimming pool. Rhonda in a bikini is a slight against god.] I'm on my way to work (even if I'm obviously just coming home).
5: I don't know much about these people except that the woman is most definitely a dealer. She came to our door (actually more than once, but we'll stick with the first time when I was there) wailing about Rhonda and "Call 911!" Although she's supposedly using less, Rhonda continues to have seizures. This particular one happened early summer while the crack heads were having a pool party. None of them had a phone? I don't know. Anyway, Rhonda was in her bikini. Thin as a rail Rhonda needs a onesie... I mean she looks like she's going to fall apart without some sort of protective barrier against the world. And there she was flailing away under a bush. Have you ever seen someone milk a seizure? I have. I'm no doctor, but this was bullshit. When emergency did arrive, everyone scattered. Including Rhonda. Crazy-ass neighbor #5 was nowhere to be found (though she did come back later to fill us in nonsensically), and Rhonda bolted as soon as she saw flashing lights. I don't know where they picked her up, but I imagine a crackhead in a bikini wasn't so hard to spot on Cheek Road. The police asked us one question: "Was it Rhonda?" Yeah. "She needs to just be put away."
6-7: I don't know these people. Thank god.
8: Quiet, suspicious elderly couple.

The only other notables in this area are the countless dog owners who neglect their pets (who have to be rescued from Bosley, Sarah's territorial boxer) and the crack ho. Now I've heard people use the term crack ho for women who maybe slept around some or were especially skinny. No, this woman is a crack ho in that she does crack and is a prostitute. She has what I can only assume is a pimp, an older bearded fellow who could be Jesus's older brother in a Grateful Dead tribute band. She appeared, at first, to be comely. Then she flagged down my car one hot afternoon and I saw, in my rear view mirror, the latest addition to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family, "leatherho." She's always coming out of a different house and ambling drunkenly down the street. I try not to judge, but damn... she's just a crack ho.

Once the house was broken into in the middle of the day while Sarah & I were at work. The back door was kicked in, the lock broken, but that was all. My guess is that Bosley informed them they weren't welcome.

Another time I heard a sound around the house & went to investigate. When I put the lights on I saw someone scurry off in a dark, hooded jacket. He was clutching something something to his chest like a bundled child. I called the police - it was maybe 3 in the morning. We couldn't find anything missing. Days later, Sarah asked me if I had used the last of the Tide. I put the pieces together... and laughed at the image of dumbass hoofing it down the street with a near-empty bottle of laundry detergent under his jacket.

Both of our cars were broken into. Sarah's was on a Friday night, and she called to leave me a message to that effect. I got it when I was calling her Sunday morning to let her know my car had been broken into. Keen. Sarah's car was likely open to begin with, but all they got was a handful of change from the bin. They scattered candy wrappers from the ashtray throughout the car, and it seemed like they had maybe just stopped to have a snack. My car had a bit more in it, and they must have used some sort of tool to get the lock open. Aside from the minor damage to the door, the casualty was not so devastating. Allow me to illustrate via comparison. Next to each item I list that was stolen, its ARV, and below it, an item of greater value which was not stolen.
1: Handful of dead batteries. ARV: $0
2GB mp3 player, left in the driver's seat.
2: Handful of loose change. ARV: $3
X-Men DVD borrowed from David Woodward, in the opened glove compartment.
3: Electronic Travel Sudoku game (resembling a PDA). ARV: $10
Portable CD player and half a dozen new CDs.
When Sarah spoke with the police, the officer noted regarding #3, "I prefer to do mine on paper."