The Return of the Crackhead
I had fallen asleep after several very long and heavy weekdays. The weekend had gone by quickly and I found myself phasing in and out of sleep, my eyes widening, and slowly shrinking back again. This had gone on all Sunday, all through to the night. And I still wasn’t done. Around nine that night my eyes had finally closed their final time before the next morning. Or so I thought.
It was mid-morning, or twilight, or deep night, I don’t know. Something slowly woke me up in the middle of the night. At first I chose to ignore it. Unfortunately, the tapping became louder and far more regular. I turned over and smothered my face with my pillow hoping to drown out the noise. Still, the tapping continued. My head finally rose and I slowly looked around. The tapping continued. And I knew my sleep would finally be interrupted.
I sat myself up. I searched around the room blindly for a pair of pants to slip on, and possibly a tee-shirt. I knocked several magazines over onto the floor. It was sometime after three in the morning. I could faintly hear my name being called from outside. I peaked out the window, went to the door and walked to the lobby. I opened the door and was hit with a gust of strong cold wind. I looked around. And there he was, my crackhead unkle.
He quickly approached me and told me that he was sorry for waking me. He told me his landlord wouldn’t let him in. He rushed passed me. And what he did next would horrify, anger, and completely confound me for the rest of the day. I stood at the door, which was still halfway open. He walked to my room, sat on my bed, took off his shoes, lifted his legs and laid in my bed, pulled the covers over him, took off his glasses, and told me he was going to sleep. And like I said, I stood there by the door dumbfounded.
This son of a beyotch had come to my house, awaken me, went to my room, and preceded to go to sleep in the bed he had just gotten me out of. And I wondered how much time I would do for the murder I was about to commit. Of course it would be life. And I wasn’t looking forward to tossing salads and having my teeth busted out.
So, I decided to cut on all the lights in the house, followed by the fans, the oven, and some running water in the bathroom. And then I remembered the fight me and my mother had had several nights earlier. Something about keys. Apparently, my mother believed that she had left her brother’s spare keys at my house a week earlier, or she had given them to me for some reason neither of us could remember some weeks earlier. My part of the argument consisted of me reminding my mother how feeble-minded she was, and how she had never given me, or even brought those keys over to my house. I didn’t have them, and I didn’t know where they were, and she was wrong and I was right.
But because of the special circumstance before me I had decided to forego my pride and actually do something unthinkable, actually look for the keys. I searched the tables, under the couch, in the couch, behind the couch, behind the stove, in my drawers, behind the drawers, hell, even around the bar. Yeah. I know I don’t drink, but everybody needs a bar. I eventually decided to look in the box my mother used to throw all my crap into when she was trying to clean my place up recently. And underneath some old newspapers and some wet magazines (don’t ask), there they were, his keys.
I quickly ran to my room and told him that I had found his keys. He was shocked. He began questioning me about if they really worked, were they old keys? He told me that recently his locks had been changed. And I told him these keys would get him in, even though I really didn’t know for sure. He questioned me again. And I told him to go check them out. I slowly kicked his ass out of my apartment, and I watched him run through the cold gusty wind to parts unknown. And of course, I was happy.
I waited awhile with the lights on. I was fearful he might return. He would call me some thirty minutes later telling me that he had gotten in. And I was happy.
The only problem now was trying to get myself back into sleeping mode. Unfortunately, I failed. And I was pretty tired when it was time to go to work. In fact, it fucked up my whole day because I was having weird muscle spasms all over my body. And now that I’m back home, I can’t go to sleep. And I got a resume that I have to prepare for an interview I’m going to have tomorrow.
And I’m scared as hell, and fucked up, especially since I have no idea if my crackhead unkle will return for another visit.
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