histrionic preservation

Palookaville's Historical District contains a residential neighborhood called Rogers Grove. It is one of those neighborhoods that are on the cusp of gentrification. I live in a 150 year old building called the Herman Apartments. It is a 19 unit complex that is commonplace in any Chicago neighborhood, but highly unusual in Palookaville. Most of the architectural details are still intact; high ceilings, plaster walls, large dark wood crown molding and trim, dark wood floors and french doors on the dining room, etc. When I moved in, it was owned by a hillbilly woman named Earlene and her pot bellied husband, Jim. Earlene and Jim would rent to anybody who had the first month's rent and deposit. Many of the residents were known drug peddlers. Rumor has it Big Paula, who lived in the basement unit, payed Earlene her rent in marijuana. The kid in Unit 5 would run out of his door anytime a car horn sounded. He was running a drive-thru crack service right out of the building. When the guys who delivered my furniture from Chicago witnessed one of his transactions, they were nervous and asked, "What kind of town is this?"
One day I came home to find flyers on every door with a picture of the guy from number 3 (Key Largo Brown's cousin, who during the Prince/Purple Rain/Morris Day and the Time phase that took Palookaville by storm, wore an assymetrical jerry (jheri?) curl, a metallic trench coat and eyeliner which, sadly, pulled him crazy amounts of ass). Emblazoned across the top were the words, "Armed and Dangerous-Wanted for First Degree Murder-If Seen, Call the Palookaville Police Department." He had shot a guy in the face the night before. The guy owed him money. For crack, of course. Key Largo's cousin had no less than 4 "baby mamas" that stopped by on a regular basis to fight with him. One fight I will never forget is the time that the youngest and most ghetto-oriented mama came by "...cause (she) wanted to kick it." Now for all the die-hard honkies out there, that means she wanted to make sweet love to him. Or something like that. Now, Key Largo's cousin was down with the program, but he had some standards. "Where my baby at?" he axed.
"They at Big Mama an 'ems." she replied.
"My baby bettah not be innat hot ass cah." He gave her fair warning.
"They not! I tole you they at Big Mama's!" She was getting loud.
"Girl, don't get all loud up in here. Ima tell you one. mo. time; my baby bet. not. be. in. nat. hot. ass. cah." Silence. Door shuts. And then the hot nasty funky muffled love sounds commence. Approximately 11 minutes later, the door to number 3 opens. Key Largo's cousin and the mama exchange parting words. I look out the window. Two stories down next to the curb is parked a small grey Toyota Corolla. Through the window, I can see a baby strapped in a car seat. A hot. ass. cah. seat. Damn. Just as the mama gets as far as the car's bumper, Key Largo's cousin appears out of nowhere and with one fluid motion removes the belt from his ivory canvas "manpris" which match his ivory canvas hat, and strikes the mama full force in the face. She fell in the street, screaming and covering her face with her hands. I waited. I watched him hit her once more across her shoulders and raise the belt again. Then, I reached for the phone to call the police.
Number 10 was the lair of one Harris Marvelle. Harris fancied himself a ladie's man. The only woman not paid to succumb to his charms was Earlene. Harris paid his rent on his own schedule, ran a huge orange extension cord from under his door to the outlet in the main hallway to power everything in his apartment, was the loudest individual known to walk the face of the earth, and constantly had a foul odor seeping from under his door from his tropical fish tank that he never ever cleaned. Harris liked to cruise the parking lot of the Big Chip Casino. Desperate female gambling addicts prostitute themselves in the parking lot. Harris would bring them back to his apartment. Because I lived directly below Harris, I was often disturbed from sleep in the middle of the night by urgent knocking on my door. "Who is it?" I would ask through the door.
"Is Harrold in there?" a female voice would ask.
"Who?" I would ask back.
"Uhh, Harr....Harrison?"
"Hell, no! There is no Harrold or Harrison or HARRIS in here! His nasty ass lives upstairs!Don't knock on this door again!" I was very tough through the door. Don't meet me in a dark alley with a door between us.
"Oh, sorry..." They would say as they ran up the next flight of stairs. They were the pros, coming back to try to rustle up a trick.
"Hello, Earlene. How are you? Did you do something different to your hair?" He could sound just like Billy Dee Williams. Earlene actually giggled. "Oh, gawd, no! Same ol' hair I've had fer years!" She reached up and smoothed her Dorothy Hamill. Harris always greeted her with a compliment. I don't think Earlene had ever been complimented in her life. She absolutely lit up every single time. Now, Harris was probably 34. Earlene was every bit of 60. Harris was a former Division 1 lineman. He had to be 6'5" and 320. Earlene was...well, an old white lady. She wore sweatshirts with puffy ducks adorned with country blue bows on them. She usually wore the same one for days on end. Her skin had that weird grey undertone of somebody who has smoked a considerable amount of weed daily for many years. The most freaky thing about Earlene was her teeth. They were the same exact color as her skin. She wore a huge pair of eyeglasses. They were square shaped, gold plated and tinted a peachy tan color to about mid point on the lens. The ear pieces were shaped like rounded Zs. They had to be circa 1978.
One evening, I was going down the stairs as Harris was coming up.
"May I ask you a question?" he asked.
I paused on the bottom stair.
"Why don't you have a man? You're so fine."
I laughed and continued down the stairs.
"I'm serious! Seriously!"
I just walked out the door. As if...
To be continued.