in my neighborhood

Or at least the last five hours in my neighborhood.

I rode The General’s bike home from work. She’s ridden it there and then drove back some furniture, art, and flower pots that I’d taken home from the Furniture Free For All we had on the 3rd floor of our building today. (Long story.) First off, when did this helmet craze start? The last time I rode a bike I was 15 and had to get to Vermont Park to play some basketball. I didn’t have time to strap on a helmet and if I did, I would have been the nerdiest baller there and never would have been able to call next. Second off, there are some weird dudes (and ladies) that ride their bikes in my neighborhood. Although, the dude that pedaled out of the yard ofd the halfway house a few blocks over was super friendly!

At about mile 2.1 of my ~2.2 mile ride, I noticed I was riding parallel to a girl that was either carrying a basketball under her shirt or a good 7 months pregnant. I watched her as she pulled into the yard of the light blue house about three houses down and across the street from our place. I don’t meet neighbors, so I couldn’t tell you anything about them. I just know that their neighbors in the pink house tend to use a charcoal grill in their upstairs bedroom. YES, I SAID BEDROOM.

By the time I got home and pulled the bike through out yard, I’d noticed the pregnant lady was having a very heated conversation with a dude wearing a short-sleeved flannel shirt and some JAMS. And by heated, I mean he was yelling at her and she was yelling “Nuh huh!” right back at him. Fast forward a few minutes later while I’m standing in my front yard and I notice her riding the bike down the street carrying a 3rd bicycle tire. She came back about 15 minutes later and then apparently all hell broke loose.

JAMS R. McGee started yelling at her about losing something, then yanks the bike away from her. Next thing I know, he’s throwing the bike across the sidewalk at her. Please keep in mind she’s very pregnant. When a mode of transportation gets thrown at someone, especially if they’re with child, I have to get involved. And by get involved, I mean call the police. I’m always a fan of CSI: Minneapolis!

The 911 dispatcher was crabby with me because I didn’t know the exact address of the house where all of this was going on and because I didn’t know if the house was East or West of me. DUDE. I’M NOT FUCKING TOMTOM. BACK OFF. The dispatched asked me what race the people were and I was about two seconds from going all “WHY THE HELL DOES IT MATTER?!” but then I realized they’d need to identify then should there end up being bodies.

Five minutes later (nice work, MPD!) a cop car drove down our street. Two cops were inside. One the size of Barbie’s niece Skipper and the other the size of the mom from that damn midget show on TLC. Now, wait just a tic. If JAMS R. McGee wasn’t too shy about throwing large objects at his pregnant girlfriend, what in God’s name makes these tiny little police women think that he’s not going to be afraid to punch them right in their necks? It sure isn’t the fluorescent yellow vests they were wearing when they went to knock on his door.

The dude never answered. No, surprise. And the girl had already walked about four blocks by the time Minneapolis’ finest got there. It took all of about five minutes for me to turn from Concerned Citizen to Let Me Release My Fury at the Cops on all of Minneapolis. Luckily, The General knows me well enough to tell me to go inside and we ordered pizza and now I don’t care anymore. It’s off the street; there’s nothing much I can do about it.

But then I went to the gas station to get some delicious 99 cent cans of Arizona Sweet Tea that I cannot stop drinking. And My Friend (that’s what I call my favorite cashier at the SA on Broadway and University) and The Girl That Hates Everyone were giggling about something when I got up to the cash register. Turns out My Friend had to bust some dude that was trying to steal condoms. From a gas station. This poses two questions:

  • What is going on in your life right that very second that causes you to try to steal a ONE PACK of condoms from a gas station? Do you have a hot date in the car? Are you picking up a hooker? Is your baby mama coming home later tonight from the bar and you’re thinking that Lemondrop Martini is going to get her just buzzed enough so you can get some play?
  • How does one stop a patron that’s trying to burgle some condoms? Because had I been working there, I probably would have just let it slide. If you have to steal a damn condom, you clearly need it really, really bad. Never mind that there’s a machine in the women’s bathroom (and I’m assuming men’s!) that sells them for 75 cents.

I really do love this neighborhood.

What's up?