Punk

It’s early. Maggie Rose and I were back in the house after her break-of-dawn potty trip. There’s a knock on our door.

Seldom does anyone knock on our door.

 

Upstairs neighbor’s current roommate, there’ve been several, greets me.

 

With a helluva shiner.

 

A couple of thoughts…

 

I don’t trust most people on a good day.

 

This wasn’t a good day.

 

The first to tell their story is oftentimes a damn liar.

 

Back to the story...

 

Apparently the roommates were camping at Granite, loaded, and SHTF. He tells me he’s moving out. Why do I need to know this? I barely know his name. Rotating roommates for the man upstairs is nothing new.

 

I’m a witness to nothing, as apparently the incident happened off premises. And we all know, I’m not big on peeking outside even when baseball bats, fists, and other weapons are brandished on premises. Even if an altercation happened at my door, I wouldn’t know details.

 

I arrive home around eight tonight tired and ready to see my animals. Shiner man and a friend come over to my car as I’m backing in my parking spot.

 

Shiner tells me he’s getting his belongings while Phil is at work. And he continues, “I hope he doesn’t bother you.”

 

Not even a little worried he would bother me, I let Shiner man know Phil doesn’t want to meet my friends. Goodness, what a mistake it would be for Phil to mess with mama. My friends are nice, kind, respectful, until given reason to behave otherwise.

 

So Phil, mind your P’s and Q’s. Leave neighbor “B” alone. No more hissy fits, or throwing your friend’s bike off the balcony. I wasn’t here for your childish behavior. Thank goodness.

 

Perhaps if you laid off what ever you’re smoking (rank odor), leave tequila and vodka alone, dry out a bit, life may improve.

Leave me out of your drama.

 

 

Punk.