Try to imagine how many times I’ve heard these words over the past couple weeks. Men utter them and so do women.
Butch must be the guy who moved into the apartment above me. People stand in front of my kitchen window looking up, looking for Butch.
Don’t these people have cell phones? Can’t they just call Butch and tell him that they’re here waiting for him?
I don’t think Butch has ever come down the stairs to let anybody in. Maybe Butch is never home. Maybe Butch doesn’t even live here.
Yesterday morning, around eight o’clock, there was a young woman standing in front of my kitchen window looking up. At first she didn’t say anything but more sooner than later, she uttered those words.
“Hey Butch!” Wait a couple seconds. “Hey Butch!”
No one named Butch came down the stairs to open the door. The young woman then felt the need to knock on my window. I was still on my first cup of coffee and feeling very annoyed.
I ignored the first knock, but then she knocked on my window again. Pissed, I went out and opened the front door to the apartment building.
“Is Butch here?” the woman asked.
“How the hell would I know?” I said, making no effort to hide my displeasure with her.
“Can I come in and knock on his door?”
“No,” I replied, “and I’m not the goddamn doorman here. “Next time, call Butch to see if he’s home.” With that said, I closed the door.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever see this Butch guy. I’ve never meet him but I already don’t like him.
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