VULTURES

This is a strange place. Nobody sleeps, trading natural rest for the sudden shut down of functions that come with excess. Eviction notices are placed on doors. The residents and the landlord are on borrowed time.

Unemployed hustlers count ounces in front of weeping children. Proud worthless women make up the difference between welfare and food stamps.

Here dwell madmen that claim to see angels.

Here in my beautifully decaying portrait of the American dream the best entertainment is right on the front porch. Some dark beer and cigarettes you have to roll. The residents can’t stand dark beer or rolled cigarettes so I avoid having to give anything out.

Two men scream at each other; one from the parking lot and one from the second floor of the complex.

“Well, where're my fifty bucks then?”

“Fuck you!” says the man in the parking lot extending his middle finger.

The second floor stomps his foot and runs down the steps giving parking lot enough time to grab a pipe from the back of his truck. The pipe didn’t help. Parking lot ended up on his back while second-floor guy ran back upstairs. I lit a smoke and watched the defeated man drive off in his truck disregarding the children and other residents. That ride home must have been awful.

A couple starts to argue a few doors down from me. I watch like the unhidden voyeur I am.

“Fuck you bitch!” a man with a wife beater and blisters on his face screaming.

“Bobby get inside!”

“Fuck you bitch!” it seems he’s stuck on repeat.

“James! Come inside please!”

“Fuck you bitch!” she reaches for him, he pulls away and storms off like an upset child. She went to her knees crying for him. I turned away, not out of respect. He’d be back tonight with tearful apologies and promises of not to leave again. They did this song and dance at least three times a week
A car door slams. I walk to the rail seeing the landlord rushing into his house. He was either scared of the consequences of the eviction notice he placed or he had a bag of crystal to smoke.

The place had calmed down and I went back inside. I drank and pre-rolled cigarettes while watching the window. The light became a darker shade screaming erupted. The intermission was over.

I stood outside looking for something that wasn’t there. Inspiration, meaning, God? What I found was the landlord locked in his apartment and someone banging on his door.

“Open the fucking door, Mike!”

“Get out of here Nick I’ll call the cops!”

“Fuck you, Mike! I’m three days late you piece of shit!” Nick kicked the door.

The damn thing started to crack. Mikes woman screamed from inside. Imagine a tweakers paranoid delusions coming to life. That’s what they were both going through.

A crowd gathers, drunken vultures wanting to see someone suffer more than they. I’m not judging. I’m right among them.

“I’m calling em’ Nick!” screamed mike from behind his door.

Bobby walked up to his woman a few doors down. He stood by the railing as well and looked down at the scene.

Mike wouldn’t call the cops he was a tweaker. Those fucks were worse about their shit than the cokeheads. A cokehead could leave his shit inside, but tweakers are a different breed. They’d steal shit from anyone to keep it going. I’ve come down off the stuff before. I don’t recommend it. I digress though.
Cheering started, I don’t know who started it but all of the vultures joined in.

“Kick his ass Nick!”

“Fuck that Mexican piece of shit!”

“Fucking faggot doesn’t do shit around here anyway!”

Mike was lazy, he lived here rent free and had a salary all he had to do was place the notes on the door and act like a super. My sink still didn’t work. The chants drove Nick on. If he was gonna go out he may as well go out a people pleaser.

The door gave way and Nick took a single step forward.

That’s when the big bang happened. Chaos erupted and the vultures scattered. I watched them all retreat back into their homes. They’d had their fill. Nick was on his back as blood pooled around his head. Mikes woman is screaming. Mike is screaming. Nick is convulsing. He was dead by the time anyone useful got there.

Chemical-induced panic made a man paranoid about getting his ass kicked. Some fuck who took his job too seriously. Nick had been three days late on the rent and died for it. The residents all had their versions of it. There wasn’t any video despite the signs claiming the place was under video surveillance.
Mike was gone and so was his woman. Now suddenly Nick was everyone’s best friend. He was featured in the pot dealers mixtape (now available on SoundCloud). A few families spoke of moving but the communal drug pool was too much to give up.

I’m sitting on my plastic chair and hear someone screaming again. Who needs TV when you got this shit?