Tim's House Part 2 version 2.0

...and the next installment

“Oh, I just want a room,” I replied...and with a look of defeat.  Ben staggered away. It is at this point I can imagine the way the conversation with my probation officer would go... “Your room wreaks heavily of marijuana, and furthermore, I didn’t appreciate the skinhead with the dilated eyes and the green teeth refer to me as ‘the biggest baddest tree in the forest.’  In addition, we found several unregistered firearms and a crossbow, I have no choice but to violate your probation, go straight to prison...look at this place...why on earth would you stay here???.”

Tim's House, the bedrock of recovery!!!

It’s 8:30 now and a giant black man who looks more like the Gorilla Amy, walks in the room accompanied by a tiny white woman who reminds me of a docile, subservient Japanese geisha.

“So Bryan tells me you just moved in, I’m Tim, and this is my wife Debbie, let me show you to your room.”

So Tim leads me down the hall and it becomes obvious that at least 20 people live here, it’s co-ed, no rules, and no real sobriety at all.

“If you need to smoke, smoke in your room or outside.” He then paused with an awkward grin “This is Bruce, your roommate, enjoy.”

Now had I known who my new “roomie” was, I would have elected to sleep in a dumpster behind Jack N the Box because this was going to be a nightmare.  I felt like I had walked into a Geico commercial, only after the caveman had consumed 3 bottles of robotussin and an entire bottle of nutmeg, then in an enraged state of Alpha dominance, smashed everything in sight in a primordial showdown to win breeding rights and the affection of an invisible cave-girl. So either Bruce the neanderthal was talking to his bong or his fantasy cave love, and when I looked over my shoulder, the gorilla was long gone. Was this a set up? Where were the hidden cameras? Was Ashton Kutcher going to jump out and “punk me?”

Bruce continued his tirade of profanity and seemed either uninterested, unaware, or highly under the influence, but right as I was contemplating an Exodus to the streets, he made contact and said “Fucking pigs…can’t ABC with no 123.  Piece of shit, talking waking me up at 2 pm when I was trying to sleep, my lawyers got my back bro.” The twisted grin on his sun-burnt face suggested an amphetamine induced psychosis, or worse, the real deal.  I introduced myself and timidly extended my hand, half expecting him to bite it off like an emaciated one-eyed pittbull.  He didn’t reciprocate, but he passed me a bong instead. I had to act coy, cold sore chronic had an irreversible effect.  He checked out, so I ripped it and checked out too.  His long black hair rolled down his face but his crown reminded me of a slice of baloney, or even the cul-de-sac we lived on.

“I hate that stupid loud monkey fuck, wakes me up all the time. One day I am going to beat his ass!”

“Who Tim?” I asked.  But I knew already this is Orange County with 16.5 black residents growing .008% annually.

Bruce slumped his head down and moaned “yeah.” It was clear that his zyprexa or Trazodone psych meds were taking effect.  I put my bags down and slowly retreated to the kitchen.  Was he going to flip out or be mellow? Was the weed enough to put this paranoid schizophrenic at ease or was I done for? Would he be hiding in the closet late at night, wearing a ski mask, chain smoking and talking to the stuffed animals with a machete in one hand and 4 lbs of cantaloupe in the other chanting “redrum, redrum?”

Maybe I should hit Ben up for a narcotic peace offering.  I can already hear what type of conversations we would have.

 Vacillating on the great tight rope of
stability and the open void of a modern vagabond

“Yes Bruce, you’re right.  The fruitcakes of today are the leaders of tomorrow. Here, eat some methadone, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to share a room with such an insightful and well informed neanderthal such as yourself…What’s that? Yes the government is experimenting with a metrosexual army of robotic aliens for the city of Costa Mesa, you’re right Bruce, they are infiltrating the homeless in an attempt to brainwash them with ecstasy and canabinal to reprogram them and serve the clerks at the DMV, what’s that you say? Nancy Clarke is Hulk Hogan, couldn’t agree more.”

The house was quiet by now, and upon entering the kitchen is when I saw her. I remember the black Mercedez parked in the driveway.  The license plate said “Double GG’s” I pondered the meaning of it. Two gangsters, two great grams of dope? Two gay graffiti artists?”

The saga continues : Tim's House part 3