It’s about 11 at night, and I’m into my, what, fifth hour of Guitar Hero? Anyway, there’s a ring at the doorbell and a knock at the door. Well, shit. Could be my boyfriend if his hands are full, but probably not. I look out the peephole and it’s a stranger.
Well, yes, I know (and knew then, even) that I shouldn’t open the door. But then I think, what if he’s knocking to say, “Ma’am, did you know that your dog is out?” or maybe “Miss, your house is on fire - just around the edges. Might wanna get that fixed.” So sue me, I’m an optimist! I realize, in hindsight, that the best course of action would have been to yell through the door that I don’t open up at the time of night. (Of course, with the big window right there, it’s not like he can’t see I’m here in my pajamas. If he smashed it there’s a glass break sensor, at least.) But I’m thinking also, maybe I should open the door so he can see there’s somebody home, not an empty house to rob.
So I open it a crack and he says, “Miss, is your husband or father home?” So much for that “There’s somebody here!” argument, huh? I say, “Why?” And then he gives me his spiel about being a hungry homeless vet, and just five dollars… I tell him I don’t have anything and then watch through the peephole to make sure he goes away, and then I call the cops and ask them to take a ride around and make sure everything is all right.
This happened once before, and the next morning I was missing a lot of stuff from my porch, I might add.
Well, fuck you for a lying shit sucker, asshole. In case I get any shit from anybody about “oh how could you judge a poor homeless starving person,” allow me to inform you that I see more homeless guys in my job than anybody who isn’t a cop or actively involved in homeless services (of which, governmentally speaking, it is to laugh around here.) I can tell you damned well that nobody goes hungry in this town who isn’t 1) physically or mentally very infirm and nobody from any church knows about it, or 2) sure the Oliver Gospel Mission puts microchips in the mashed potates that tell the aliens what your Social Security number is. Not the ones from Mexico, the ones from Alpha Centauri. Addiction services, underfunded. Mental health services, it is to laugh. Whoever it is that could take Larry there in the corner and entirely replace his blood ala Keith Richards, we don’t got him. But food? We have food. Nobody goes hungry here, certainly not anybody who’s enough of an ambulatory shitstain to go knocking on people’s doors near midnight.
Also, it’s very subjective, but you didn’t even really have that “homeless” look to you. Do you live in the ghetto several streets down? Have you watched my house? Do you know which car belongs to whom, and when my boyfriend is here?
So what, indeed, was the purpose of your visit? Was it to intimidate people into giving you money so you’d go away and not lurk around their homes? Did you plan on selling your sob story to people who don’t know better? Are you so drug-addled that you don’t realize what time it is? Does your dealer only do business between the hours of 11:30 and midnight? Is it that the liquor stores close at 7 and don’t open again until the morning and Earl wouldn’t give you any of his five dollar vodka without cash on the nail? I’d be pissed off enough if you slimed your way up my steps in the daytime, but at night? It is fucking disgusting that I have to weigh the benefits and drawbacks of moving one of my guns from my bedroom to the living room because of you. How dare you frighten me in my own fucking home? How dare you force me to decide if it’s safer or not to open my own front door?! I can hardly articulate how angry you make me - this is my property and it disgusts me to think that somebody, especially some revolting little fucker like you, can make me feel unsafe on it. Grr!
Oh, and thank you, City of Columbia Police Department, for being so courteous on the phone and promising to send a car around to check things out.
