you hear stories abut how crazy it is living here. people from the suburbs or boulder will often react to "i live on cap hill," with "REALLY? ISN'T IT CRAZY?"
and i'm like, "you know what? it might be, but it sure in the fuck ain't crazy like the neighborhood i grew up in, so i might be a little desensitized to the crazy or perceived dangerous (i do get it, though. there's a guy that hangs out on the side of my building and when i walk the dog at night he always quotes me a ridiculously low price for the crack he's slangin'. it keeps getting lower, and thus, harder and harder for me to refuse. between him and the hookers i stopped carrying cash while i walk the dog - it's all too tempting.)
my apartment on eleventh faced the alley, so i had some interesting bum interactions in the middle of the night - and there's been some interesting stuff happening just outside our windows, but sometimes, everything cap hill is just crystallizes into one perfect series of moments.
when people ask me what it's like to live on cap hill, i don't tell them about the hobos or the fights or the hookers or the shitty parking. i tell this story:
we had just moved into our new apartment, and having no furniture, fell asleep on the floor of the living room watching movies and drinking cheap red wine, using each other (and the dog) as pillows. he woke us up at three am, needing to go out, so i pulled on my shoes and threw on a chokechain (on the dog, not myself), and the two of us wandered outside into the summer night, my roommate perched in the windowsill like a house cat, smiling and smoking cigarettes, her bare feet curling around the brick walls of our building, hot ash spilling down onto her patchwork jeans. the dog pulled against the leash, dragging me back and forth along the sidewalk - still excited by his new experiences in the city. "nothing smells like patchouli here," is probably the thought echoing through his head, along with "food food food" and "squirrel squirrel squirrel" and "i have to pee on fucking everything."
as we walked, a group of 21 year-old hipsters slowly rode down the street on bikes, drunk, looking for pizza. they'd obviously just met, shouting basic information at each other -
"what's your name again?"
"rachel!"
"and you're from kansas city?"
"yeah!"
"do you like denver?"
"it's great!"
further down the street stands one of the other buildings i would've loved to live in, all balconies and rusted fire escapes, and as we walked by, screams and moans erupted from an open window. the dog's ears perked. so did mine.
somewhere in that building a girl was having one of the loudest, longest orgasms i've ever experienced in my life. strangely, there were no other sounds - a bed creaking, a dude breathin' or groanin', funk music - all missing. did her voice just drown it out? was it someone watching porn? was it an exhibitionist, masturbating at the open window, waiting for someone to walk by and hear her cries (lucky me)?***
while i wanted to stay and listen, the dog was bored by her, so we kept moving, two blocks from home now, my feet sliding in my untied boots, the laces fraying on the cement.
we passed by a tree and a small orange light caught my eye as it appeared and as my vision adjusted to the shade under the sodium streetlight i saw an overweight red-haired goth in a black suit and eyeliner, rings on every finger, carrying a thin glossy black cane, like a grim reapin' pimp. he smoked a clove cigarette, and i don't know if it's because he likes the taste or he just wants everything to be color coordinated (that's why i smoke 'em).
"good evening," he said to me.
"hi," i said, stumbling forward three steps as the dog pulled toward a lamppost.
"how has your evening been?" he asked, dragging on his cigarette.
"pretty good," i said. "how's yours?"
he exhaled with his answer, turning his words into smoke - "my evening has been excellent. thank you for inquiring."
they floated up into the night air, and i moved on, making a list in my head of everything i'd seen and heard, wishing my roommate had come with me, so she could see firsthand the neighborhood she moved into, this place i loved.
but i'd tell her.
i open the door, and there she is. babytalkin' the puppy, grinnin' from ear to ear, smellin' like perfume and chinese food and fresh cigarette smoke. hugging me, holding me, calling me home.
a real conversation between me and my mother:
mother: i'm really worried about you living in this neighborhood.
me: trust me, it'll be fine.
mother: it's not very safe.
me: it's perfectly safe.
mother: home is safe.
me: mom, i've literally had bullets fired at me three times in our neighborhood.
* i wanted to make sure that i was spelling "histrionic" right, so i ended up at the googles, which led me to wikipedia's "histrionic personality disorder," a disorder characterized by a pattern of excessive emotionality and attention-seeking, including an excessive need for approval. these individuals are lively, dramatic, enthusiastic, and flirtatious. they may be inappropriately sexually provocative, express strong emotions with an expressionistic style, and be easily influenced by others. associated features may include egocentricity, self-indulgence, continuous longing for appreciation, feelings that are easily hurt, and persistent manipulative behavior to achieve one's own needs.
dude. i have fuckin' histrionic personality disorder.
i'm gonna add it to my eharmony profile. **
** problem with the women on eharmony: not enough professional cheerleaders.
*** if that made her come, i'm so taking karmic responsibility for that orgasm.
