Wednesday Night
Saturday, Nov 17, 2007 2:38AM / Standard Entry
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At the nonprofit where I work, we sometimes receive free groceries that are
nearing their expiration date. Wednesday night as I was about to leave
I was told to pack in as many baby cherry tomatoes as I can fit, 'cause
apparently nobody else wanted to eat them. As a decent cook I still
had no idea what to do with them.
My buddy Ethan came over later
that night to work on sound for my film Hakuma Hallelujah, which
apparently is a masterpiece that nobody else understands. Anyways,
while we were chilling, there was a group of hipsters outside my house,
chatting loudly. My house faced the rough and tumble streets of the
West Coast, perhaps the roughest street on the entire Coast, peppered
with one gun store, one liquor store, and countless authentic
restaurants and hipster bars. Nas would flee. However, this
particular group of upstanding taxpayers really irked me for some
reason, as they stood in front of my door and screamed their
conversations for the 'hood to decipher. It wasn't even late, but it
was very irritating, as they were there for about 45 minutes, loud
non-stop. Ethan left my house, and as I walked him out, we acted like
we were mid-conversation and I said something like "so yeah, you should
try pooping on her face next time as well", the young folks just looked
at us and continued their pointless privleged noise.
I came back to
my room, ready to watch a Christopher Doyle film which I hadn't seen,
when I saw my bag of baby cherry tomatoes. I instantly reminisced all
the times when my buddies Ben, N'jeri, Nick and I would sneak onto the rooftop
of the VFW next to their house and hurl bananas at drunken loudness.
I
had three windows in my room, for some God-decided reason, the screen
in my middle window fell off, leaving just a window pane between myself
and the rough and tumble streets of the West Coast. I turned off my
lights, pulled up the window and the venetian blinds, and began
hurling. This was a much harder task because the targets were at an
angle and there was a giant Gun Store sign between the targets and me.
I tried a few methods and failed to deter their interesting lively
discussions about how pointless their lives must be.
I then suddenly
recalled the other portions of my flashback, when Nick and Ben always
proved to be better hurlers of objects than me, and I was always more
of an enabler/ cheerleader than a cohort. I was saddened by their
absences and tried getting my roommate in on this, he was not home. I
sat in front of my computer, as I am right now, a tiny bit deflated but
mostly irritated.
Then the girl from the gang shrieked again. I
then remembered (these flashbacks are absolutely true by the way and
they are in the orders which I am writing right now) the one time that
I'd successfully landed my target: I was on the back porch of their
apartment and I threw half a banana that hit a girl coming out of the
bar and she screamed "I don't even like bananas!" into the vast dark
void that was the streets of Boston. I got your message girl, loud and
clear.
That scream outside my door had to go, I have to sleep, my
children have to learn, and my cherry tomatoes were about to expire. I
recalled the basic mechanics of a shotgun (from that movie "No Country
for Old Men" that I'd just seen) and packed in fistuls of cherry
tomatoes at a time. I'd lean back for leverage, and adjusted my
projectiles each time. Their loud and private conversation had been
going on for an hour now, there were hardworking immigrants in my hood
who had to serve coffee to these ironic soundbite jukeboxes in the
morning, I told myself. I threw a few more and then I heard a very
familiar and satisfying "what the f--!?" outside my window.
I
stood still for a second, but they could kinda see my silhoutte though
no really. I tried to smoothly close the window and the blinds next to
me, but it became as obvious as Rudolf's nose (or that movie Crash's
biased moral) as the blinds got stuck and wouldn't come down in one
pull.
The four of them just stared at my dark room for a second,
and then the girl said to one of the boys "don't be nervouce, just go
up and lay your hands on him." The guy never "laid his hand" on me.
They said bye to each other and peaced outta my street.
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