I Suspected the People Downstairs Were Drug Dealers
But now I suspect it for sure.
My only evidence, before, was that they partied all night and slept all day, and fill their hedges with cigarette butts and Jack Daniels bottles. All this, and no evidence of jobs.
Today, however, I went home for lunch and witnessed a semi-harrowing scene. A burly gentleman banged on the Downstairs Neighbor’s patio door, yelling, “Open up, motherfucker. I know you’re in there. Wake the fuck up!” Meanwhile, a small sidekick gentleman with an Oakley knit cap sat in one of the patio chairs, giggling helplessly to himself.
Downstairs Neighbor came out, looking sad. Inaudible words were exchanged. Then the burly gentleman said, “Yeah, you better. You’re a waste of my fucking space, you asshole. A WASTE OF MY FUCKING SPACE.”
And then he and his sidekick peeled out, throwing menacing glances over their shoulders. I had the feeling that, if they hadn’t caught a glimpse of me catching a glimpse of them, they, as mid-level drug dealers, might have given Downstairs Neighbor (aka Low-Level Drug Dealer) a quick, well deserved roughing up. In the parking garage, my suspicions that these gentlemen were mid-level drug dealers were confirmed by the fact that they drove a tasteful white Mercedes.
Now, I’m not saying that my experience is extensive. And, as a writer, I think we all know that I like to exaggerate and embellish upon any experience that I do have. So, with that understood, I’ll now present to you…
Gwen’s Guide for Discerning Drug Dealers and Their Levels
Low-Level Drug Dealers:
- Party all night and sleep all day
- Have a lot of “friends” who don’t seem to share their social/cultural strata
- Either spend their earnings on gold chains, basketball jerseys, and Escalades with gold-toned chrome, or else drive beat-up Civics and wear rags because they spend their earnings on drugs
Mid-Level Drug Dealers:
- Are aggressive people who’ve probably made names for themselves by bullying Low-Level Drug Dealers
- Seem to have jobs, because they drive around all day
- Wear Oakley and Armani Exchange
- Drive less flashy, but still flashy cars, like Mercedes, because they consider themselves classier than Low-Level Drug Dealers
And, finally, the Top-Level Drug Dealers of each metropolitan region:
- Keep to themselves, with quiet parties among small groups of friends
- Have no discernable jobs, but make you think at first that it’s because they’re students or their parents are rich
- Wear J.Crew and GAP clothing
- Drive Land Rovers or Jeeps
- Often decorate their apartments with Christmas lights
Okay. That’s all I have. That, and the fact that I don’t mind drug dealers as long as they keep to themselves and let me keep to myself, you know? And don’t talk to my kids. Although, so far they never have. I guess my kids don’t look like they’re crafty enough to steal or rich enough to have an allowance.
I kind of wished the Mercedes Crew had roughed up Downstairs Neighbor while I watched, because Downstairs Neighbor and his cohorts keep us all up at night. I bet if Mercedes Man had started beating the crap out of Downstairs Neighbor right there on the patio, all the other neighbors would have come out to cheer him on.
Meanwhile, Here Is a Gall-Bladder(-less) Update
Several alert readers warned me furtively, in e-private, of changes I could expect in my digestion after the removal of my gall bladder. Now, as a public service, I will impart those changes to you.
Before the gall bladder surgery, I could go to the “handicap stall” of the “Ladies'” here at work and read Loving Cal by Miss Rebecca Walker, in its entirety, within three unsuccessful visits.
Now, I no longer have time to read Loving Cal.
I don’t even have time to flip through the water-marked Soap Opera Digest, should I ever become desperate enough to do that, so that I could mentally remark on the fact that the cast members of The Young and the Restless still look the same age as they did when I first saw them twenty-two years ago.
That sounds like a bad thing, but it’s not. It stops just short of being a bad thing.
On the other hand… I worry about Rebecca Walker, because Loving Cal‘s cover price is only $1.98. Assuming she gets 10% royalties, that’s only 19.8 cents per book. How can she live on that much?
Maybe she has a day job in the insurance industry. If so, she must be ecstatically happy. Therefore, I will quit worrying about her and get back to work.