Here in downtown Covington, Kentucky, I live on the first floor in my apartment building. I have the first window that people see. Other tenants knock on my window, so do strangers, so do the police, etc. You already know this as I’ve written about it before.
The other day as I was working, I heard yet another knock on my window. I looked out and recognized the guy. It was Pam’s boyfriend.
I’ve written about Pam also here before. If you’ll remember, she wanted to know if I have rolling papers one day and stole my Bic lighter on another day. I’m not a big fan of Pam—but there was her boyfriend at my window. I assumed he had forgotten his key. Of course I would assume that. Everybody in this building where I live forgets their goddamn key.
I went to the front door and let the idiot in. He didn’t say thank you. I’d be shocked if he had.
Working on a column for CityBeat, I wasn’t paying much attention to what was going on above me in the other apartments. Generally, I try to mind my own business. Some of the other tenants in my building don’t make that easy for me—something else you already know.
Some time had passed and there was a knock on my door—not my window. When I opened it, there stood Pam
“Why did you let Ronnie in?” she asked.
“Who’s Ronnie?” I replied.
“Ronnie, my ex-boyfriend.”
“I didn’t know he was your ex,” I said. “I thought he still lived here.”
“Well he doesn’t,” Pam said.
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Well, because of you, he came in and took some money,” Pam said. “He also took my last pack of cigarettes.”
“It’s your fault.”
“Don’t turn your problem into my problem,” I said. “You should have gotten your key back from him.”
“You got some cigarettes you can give me?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t give out cigarettes.”
“Jesus Christ!” Pam replied. “Can I borrow a couple bucks so I can go get some?”
“You must be joking,” I said. “I should give you money so you can buy cigarettes to light with my lighter?”
“What? I don’t have your lighter,” Pam said, lying.
“You’re full of it,” I said. “Stay away from me and tell your idiot boyfriend to stop knocking on my window.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Pam said.
“He probably will be again soon,” I replied. “I don’t want any part of him or you.”
“Well you’re not being a very good. . .”
“Get away from my door and out of my face or I’m calling the cops. You want that?”
“No,” Pam said.
“I didn’t think so,” I replied. With that said, I slammed the door shut.
Shortly after my exchange with Pam, I called my landlord to let him know what was going on with my neighbor Pam, her ex-boyfriend Ronnie and me. My landlord knows me—knows I’m normal. Why he rents to other tenants who aren’t is a question I really need to ask him.
(Photo from newyorkshitty.com)