by Charles Muller

I was returning home drunk as hell at 1:00 a.m. That's usually the way I return home except sometimes it isn't one. This time home was a run down one bedroom I shared with 3 of my "friends." The neighborhood wasn't dangerous, but there weren't any other white people living around there or anything.

Jacob and Jill were from back home; Michael was the only person I knew who was actually from that carnival of a town. He was intelligent, funny, and kind in his own way. He was also a slob and read too many philosophy books, but aside from that he was pretty cool. A few weeks ago he was at home visiting his mom and he walked in on his twin brother, Mark. Mark had his dad's service revolver in his left hand and what used to be his head and face splattered on the wall behind him. Needless to say, Mark's "accident" had put a kind of negative spin on our household lately.

As I climbed the zig-zagging stairs to the high third floor, one of the green beret cats jumped down 10 feet to a 3 inch railing, then dove another 25 feet down to the concrete, missing a spiked fence by inches. There was a gang of about 6 or 7 starving cats living in the yard next door. They were very brave, but scared of us. They would climb the stairs 40 feet up to our apartment to the trash outside when they thought we weren't home, but when we caught them at the top of the stairs they would pull the sickest escape moves anyone could imagine. That's why they were called "green beret cats." I never wanted them to be scared of me. I admired them because they were so much braver and stronger than I was.

As I climbed the stairs, I was surprised that no lights were on in the apartment. Jill was usually home getting drunk and watching "Jerry Springer" by 10:00. When I reached the top I reached in my pocket for my key, but it wasn't there.

"Fuck," I thought, "Please tell me they didn't lock the door." I knew the door was locked and proved myself right as I tried to turn the knob. "Man!" I thought, "What happened to my key?" I'm always losing things when I'm drunk and sometimes I hate myself for it.

I pounded on the door but no one answered. Maybe Jill and Jacob were fucking and they just didn't want to be bothered. Whatever. It had been misting and drizzling all night and I was cold and wet and tired. I banged on the door again and yelled, "Open up!" Nobody opened up. I reached up and knocked on the bedroom window with my bottle a couple times but there was no answer.

Next to the door above the stairs were 2 windows. The closest one was about 5 feet above the stairs and locked shut. The second window was about 10 feet above the stairs but was open enough for me to get one arm in and push the window up with my other arm. The first window would have been really easy to get in, but the second window was much farther away. It was close enough that I thought I could jump to it and get a grip but far enough away that I wasn't sure. I wasn't scared of falling 10 feet, but if I leapt from where I was standing I would have had enough momentum to go spilling off the stairs completely, falling 40 feet down to the concrete. I thanked God that I wasn't drunk out of my mind or I would have tried it.

I decided to try to get a grip on the first window ledge and position myself so I could get a good step to grab on the second. I grabbed the first ledge, but it was very wet and slippery due to rain and mist. I hesitated for a good minute, then I took the first step, swinging myself up and out, reaching for the second ledge. As soon as my foot left the ground my hand slipped and I tumbled down the stairs. It didn't hurt too bad; the alcohol numbed my pain. I made all kinds of noise falling down but I didn't give a flyin'.

I sat down on the second flight where I'd fallen in my neighbor's trash for a couple minutes, then I got up to make a second attempt.

I went to the top of the stairs, back to my starting position and prepared to make my second attempt. After studying the geometry of the building and calculating the necessary physics in my head once again, I tried again. This time I leaped with more force and fell harder. I toppled down the stairs, kicking my neighbor's window on the way down.

This time I got up fast and headed to the top of the stairs. A large black man with a rifle opened the door below me and came outside. I recognized him as my neighbor, but I had only lived here for a short time and we had not yet been introduced. I decided to speak first before he could point that thing at me and threaten me with violence.

"Hey, what's up, man? I'm sorry about all the noise I'm making. I lost my key and I'm trying to get into my apartment."

"Yo- you one of those boys that live upstairs?"

"Yeah."

"Yo- you guys be pumpin' them beats all day long!" He said this like he was proud of me. "What's your name?"

"I'm Marty. What's your name?"

"Andre."

We shook hands. You know...

I couldn't believe this guy just got done telling me that I play my music loud. He had woke me up everyday at 2:00pm blasting horrible rap and r&b.

"Where you from?"

"New York."

"Oh shit! I knew y'all was from New York from them beats you be blastin'."

I guess he knew we were all about the realness. Whatever.

"Yo, I don't know what you're talking about. You blast your shit all day long."

"Awww- we just got a little ray-dee-oh." Andre had almost a southern accent. He had a pretty girlfriend or wife or whatever standing in the doorway smiling. A little boy was standing next to her. I thought it was strange that the little boy was awake after 1:00 a.m. Andre was still holding the gun.

"What are you talking about? You blast crazy noise all day long!" I said this in a friendly way. Andre seemed cool and I was happy that he wasn't calling the cops or beating my ass or pointing that gun at me.

"Oh, does it bother you?"

"Naw- it's no big deal, I know we make noise too. Forget about it."

"So what's the deal? You're locked out of your apartment? That sucks, yo."

"Yeah, I'm locked out. Do you think I could use your phone real quick so I can try to get in touch with one of my roommates?"

"Aww- we ain't got no phone up in here, dog." Andre was standing next to a three foot high trash can filled to the brim with Olde E 40's. I think half the reason Andre seemed to like me was because I drank the same shit-ass brand of liquor he did.

"Oh. Well, um, do you know where there's any pay phones around here?"

"Yeah, there's one back by the BART station." The BART station was almost a mile away.

"Oh, shit. Well, thanks, man. I guess I'm gonna go there. I'm sorry about making all that noise."

"Don't even trip, dawg." Andre held out his hand to give me another pound. It hurt as we snapped because Andre had really long fingernails. I smiled at Andre's girl and the little boy and walked the rest of the way down the stairs. Then I walked up to the street and down to the BART station.

I got down there with about 80 cents in my pocket, enough to make 2 calls from these wack 35 cent payphones. I called the 2 most likely places anyone would be, but of course I didn't reach them.

I walked back home and stumbled back to the top of the stairs. Maybe someone had come home while I was gone making phone calls! A few knocks confirmed that this wasn't true. The small porch in front of the door was wet and dirty but I was tired and I didn't care. I slumped down on the ground and leaned my head against the door. I really wanted to be inside my apartment but I didn't want to kill myself trying. If I had been one of those cats I would have made it in. There were kids younger than me who were real Green Berets and they would have made it in. I hate it when people who are younger than me can do stuff I can't do. I hate it when anyone can do stuff I can't do.

Out of frustration I bent my head forward and banged it back against the door. It didn't hurt, but rather it felt good to release the frustration. I repeated the process in a slow, steady rhythm. After about 15 repetitions, I felt my head push back farther than the normal stopping point. I turned around and saw that the door had opened.

What? That's all it took? That's all I had to do to get in my apartment this whole time? Sometimes God has a really sick sense of humor.

I entered our filthy apartment and headed straight for the fridge. If I remembered correctly there was still a little bit left out of a fifth of vodka in there. I opened the refrigerator door and to my joy it was there. I grabbed it and took a nice sized gulp. I stood hanging on the door for support looking into the refrigerator. We had the type of food that you had to be real, real hungry to eat. I wasn't there yet, but I would be in a couple hours.

For as poor as we were, our apartment was pretty hooked up. We had a TV, a VCR, and a stereo. I didn't feel like listening to music so I turned the TV on. Of course, nothing was on at 2:30 a.m. so I put on a movie.

We only had 2 movies, Top Gun, and a documentary about a 2 headed girl. Jacob and I watched Top Gun all the time. We had all the lines memorized. Some days I would be Maverick and he would be Goose, and some days he would be Maverick and I would be Goose. We tried to get Michael to participate, but he usually didn't show much interest. I'd already seen Top Gun 3 times that week, so I threw on the documentary.

The 2 headed girl was actually a pair of Siamese twins, but they only had 1 arm and 1 leg a piece, so they basically shared 1 body but had 2 heads. The documentary was a perfect example of God's sick sense of humor. Several times throughout the program their own father referred to them as "it." There was a debate in our household as to whether or not it was crueler to expose them to the public, or keep them hidden away. Drowning them in a river was also a considered option, but left little to the imagination. Jill, who possessed all the sensitivity and caring that most females have on the surface thought they should be sent to public school and allowed to interact with other children in a normal fashion. Her compassion wouldn't allow her to realize that the 2 headed girl could never interact with anybody in a normal fashion. If they were my kids I would have kept them locked up in the attic. That way when my other kids were bad I could send them up there to spend time with them/her/it/whatever. I'd say, "Lucy up there used to be a normal girl until she angered me 1 too many times. I had to cast a spell on her to be sure she'd never misbehave again. I sure hope I don't have to go through the same thing with you." That's just me. I t seems really cruel but so does sending them out into the world to fend for themselves. Who knows, maybe I'd just sell them to the circus.

Right around the time they were showing the twins doing strange tricks with a straw, my 3 roommates came busting the door in loud as hell.

"Marty! What's up! We knew you'd be home! And look, you're drunk too! HA, HA!"

I like it when my friends are drunk. They're usually a lot nicer.

"Yo- you want a beer? We got pizza, too. Hook yourself up."

I love it when that shit happens.

It was nice to see Michael having a good time. That kid needed it and deserved it more than anyone I knew.

I stayed up and bullshitted with everyone for a while. Sometimes I hated these people, but they were some of my only real friends. They were helping me get through.

Finally, I decided to get some rest. I picked up some 2 day old crusts Jacob and Michael had brought back from the restaurant where they worked and threw them out to the cats. I had a long day of nothing ahead of me tomorrow.

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