bedroom visitation
04 april

"Meet me in front of the Rite-Aid", my standard procedure for first-timer in-calls, "it's hard to find my place." And that is totally true. I don't tell him I never give out my address to strangers, I don't tell him about my stalker or my wariness towards the vice squad or about this past Friday night. 'Don't ask, don't tell' is one of the golden rules. Anyway, I'll have to find a spot for my truck so that 'Josh' can park in my spot. 'Get 'em in and out with as little disturbance as possible'- there's another golden rule.

And just as there are golden rules, there are golden contradictions- I do give out my address to strangers, just not paying ones I've only met over the phone or internet. Call me old fashioned, or lookist, I just have to have a face first.

I give myself a half hour to get home from the French Market, which leaves me with ten seconds to straighten out my house, brush my teeth, change clothes and maybe light some candles. I make it back in twenty minutes, and as we agreed, I call Josh to let him know I'm back. He's got a cell and knows to be in the area.

I run around my house, brush, get out my favorite jock that I'll have him 'find' for me- it's part of this fantasy he wants to act out- and put on my best sweatshirt. I'm not feeling at my physical best today, probably because I've only gotten maybe nine hours of sleep since Friday night. That's nine hours spread out over the weekend and Monday night. But why would Josh be interested in this. I'm interested in why he isn't answering his cell. I clip my nails in between redial and then look at the time.

It is one minute past the appointed time so I dash off to the Rite-Aid and wait. Since I didn't ask Josh what he was driving or what he looks like, I have to rely on him making the first move. I am feeling tired, and have to leave for Palm Springs at the unreasonable hour of 6:30 am, and hope that he flakes out like so many others have. 'Never give out your address to strangers.'

While I loiter around the front of the store looking for Josh, I suddenly realize that I resemble one of the eight plus men who were dealing drugs just feet from my front door Friday night. Except that I am by myself and carry no contraband or weapons and I am very quiet, but I am out of place. It is almost midnight and I am on the street for no apparent reason. They were on the street at the beyond-unreasonable-heading-into-surreal hour of three am.

I had awoken into a nightmare. Loud hip-hop blasting from a car, at least eight men were throwing a Grand Opening for their Pharmacia blatantly under the streetlight and into the road. Someone would roar up in a car, get out and wander off across the street with one of the gang. They would return to their car and soon be replaced by another. I called the cops.

Then the noise stopped, so I called the cops and said the noise stopped, but then it started again, and on my second sneak peek through my blinds in my darkened room was when I saw the dealings. I called the cops again, more frightened now, wondering if this was the gang that had the shoot-out the weekend I was away. The weekend both ends of my little one-block long street were shut down and my neighbors who had gone out for a bite to eat had to sleep in their car because the police would not let anyone in or out until the comforting hour of 5:30 am.

I say comforting because that is the only time now that I can get some sleep. The sun will soon be rising, the birds begin their singing. Friday night- technically Saturday morning- I could not sleep. When the cops arrived, the gang ran into my court. I was literally surrounded by drug dealers who may or may not feel it their duty to 'solve the problem' of guy who's been narcing on them.

That is why the cops had to ask me to speak up when I called again, because the cops didn't look very far into my court, and I could hear and see the shadows of the perps cautiously creeping back. The only thing separating me from them were loose panes of glass in unbarred windows. I tried to explain that they were still there, but the cops wanted 'additional information' and I couldn't supply it because I was not going to split the blinds and come face to face with someone who could potentially end my life.

But they left. And then I heard more noises, and then watched at least two cars screech to a halt in front of my home and even more noisily tear away. The Grand Opening was over, for now. And each night since then I have not been able to sleep until dawn, with the sun and the birds and the first bus roaring down the street, setting off one little block full of cheap car alarms.

Not until 5:30 because in the darkness every sound wakes me and I carefully peak through the blinds to see if they are there. And each night there has been someone, once a trio, once a car parked directly behind my truck, swimming in light, and I didn't bother to call the cops because I knew by the time they arrived it would all be over.

Saturday night I nearly ran one over on my bike as I was coming home from a club. He saw me up close. Monday night one saw me pull in my parking spot, slowly sauntered off and eventually returned to conduct business behind my truck. They know my face, they know what I drive. It is only a matter of time, I think to myself. And I think of the golden contradiction that I, someone who engages in questionable activities, am the one calling the police, post Rampart, to haul off others who are engaging in questionable activities.

I don't tell Josh that part of why I want him to take my parking spot is so I don't have to walk him back to his car, or that I may have to break character and call the police if I hear so much as a rustle. I don't tell Josh that I really could just use the sleep and could we reschedule after I get back from Palm Springs? But there's no need to explain, Josh does not show up.

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