I had a visit by the police this afternoon. Yup.
I was sitting there enjoying my hand-rolled tobacco when all of a sudden there was a confident knock on the window. The guy looked serious, then showed his badge. "Would you open the door for us?" he said in a very unphilosophical manner. Shit, I thought on my way to buzz open the door. I’ve been stopped on the street by police cars since they think I smoke cannabis and not tobacco, but coming into my home? I didn’t like the thought of it.
But nothing happened. I took my keys with me and ventured out into the hall.
"Oh, there you are," one of them said. He was holding a clipboard. The other one was looking at the mailboxes. I had an inquiring face on me, at least I think I did. Or maybe a little nervous. He lifted a yellow paper looking like a receit to unveil the face of a man looking quite alot like Layne Staley before he died.
"Have you seen this man?"
I resisted the urge to point out that he did, in fact, look alot like Layne Staley before he died. Instead I gave the picture two-three looks. I hadn’t seen him. And I didn’t want to see him either. He looked like a hard criminal.
The kind who’d kill for a donut, if it was a particularly insulting donut.
"Do you know whether mrs. _____ lives here?" he continued.
"I have no idea." I don’t even remember the last names of the people I live with.
"Do you know who’s the manager of this building?"
Again, I put up a very troubled, puzzled young man’s face.
The police man looked around and found a note from the managers.
"Ah, here we are. Thanks for your cooperation."
"Sure thing," I said, pretty happy with the way I could now lock my door behind me.
I don’t like people in uniforms, unless they are truly sexy women. It reminds me of fascism. Not the women, of course.
It’s just another afternoon in the city…