Bye, bye birdie
So, I'm experiencing my first police raid.
This lady in 204, the crack addict (or cocaine addict, I get confused about which is which) who sat spread-eagle on the front lawn rummaging through the dumpster to find a "jewel" from a "perfume bottle," has "visitors" in her place all the time. Big, thug-y drug guys. The police finally showed up tonight, while Web (apartment manager) is in Fremont selling hot dogs for the night. He won't be home until 4:30 or so in the morning tomorrow. There are at least four police (in full riot gear--Jennifer opened the door to one shining his flashlight in her face earlier), a drug dog, and a couple patrol cars here. Upstairs, they've kicked in the door I hear. They're not even looking for the crack lady who officially lives there, rather some "black male" (as the police officer at the door described him in detail)who has jumped out the second story window and is either hiding in the BMW dealership next door or in the basement somewhere. Jennifer and I could have sat in the apartment, worried and knitting sweaters until our Knight with Shining Hot Dog Tongs arrives, but we have Mike.
Mike is Ananda's boyfriend. Ananda works at Cyber Dogs, where I work. She also works at a movie/theater theater called The Egyptian part-time, as a techie of sorts. Mike also does this and light crowd control. He's handy with cars/electrical thingys and is now officially Web's "maintainence man" for Starbird Apartments. We drink beer when he's around. Pretty much, he's the Seattle version of a hybrid of, say, Matt Reed and Eric Bloedsoe. Ish.
So Maintainence Man Mike, with his Maintainence Man apartment keys, goes out to greet the police on the sidewalk and they fill him in on the situation. Eventually, I go outside to get Mike to let Jennifer know what's going on. The police made us stand on the corner, though. It was cold, so I'm wearing Mike's hat and overshirt on the corner, getting to know the assorted residents of the Starbird Apartments. Around us, the gay bar crowd began to filter through the streets, staring as they walked by. Starbird Apts's longest longest resident, Birdie, entertained us with stories of his years as a cop (now he's a bondsman) and gave us a free beer. He's lived in this building for fifteen years.
The police are about finished with their search (they just knocked on the door and are out in the hall talking to Mike now) and Birdie is in here hanging out; he's using one of my drawing pencils and sketch pad to draw a picture of Jennifer. She's pretending not so see him and staring at her computer. Mike just came in; the police are booting out every person in that apartment upstairs who isn't on the lease. In response, Birdie uttered the cry he's been saying all night: "Yippie tie yie yay, motherfucker!"
A fun Saturday night.
This lady in 204, the crack addict (or cocaine addict, I get confused about which is which) who sat spread-eagle on the front lawn rummaging through the dumpster to find a "jewel" from a "perfume bottle," has "visitors" in her place all the time. Big, thug-y drug guys. The police finally showed up tonight, while Web (apartment manager) is in Fremont selling hot dogs for the night. He won't be home until 4:30 or so in the morning tomorrow. There are at least four police (in full riot gear--Jennifer opened the door to one shining his flashlight in her face earlier), a drug dog, and a couple patrol cars here. Upstairs, they've kicked in the door I hear. They're not even looking for the crack lady who officially lives there, rather some "black male" (as the police officer at the door described him in detail)who has jumped out the second story window and is either hiding in the BMW dealership next door or in the basement somewhere. Jennifer and I could have sat in the apartment, worried and knitting sweaters until our Knight with Shining Hot Dog Tongs arrives, but we have Mike.
Mike is Ananda's boyfriend. Ananda works at Cyber Dogs, where I work. She also works at a movie/theater theater called The Egyptian part-time, as a techie of sorts. Mike also does this and light crowd control. He's handy with cars/electrical thingys and is now officially Web's "maintainence man" for Starbird Apartments. We drink beer when he's around. Pretty much, he's the Seattle version of a hybrid of, say, Matt Reed and Eric Bloedsoe. Ish.
So Maintainence Man Mike, with his Maintainence Man apartment keys, goes out to greet the police on the sidewalk and they fill him in on the situation. Eventually, I go outside to get Mike to let Jennifer know what's going on. The police made us stand on the corner, though. It was cold, so I'm wearing Mike's hat and overshirt on the corner, getting to know the assorted residents of the Starbird Apartments. Around us, the gay bar crowd began to filter through the streets, staring as they walked by. Starbird Apts's longest longest resident, Birdie, entertained us with stories of his years as a cop (now he's a bondsman) and gave us a free beer. He's lived in this building for fifteen years.
The police are about finished with their search (they just knocked on the door and are out in the hall talking to Mike now) and Birdie is in here hanging out; he's using one of my drawing pencils and sketch pad to draw a picture of Jennifer. She's pretending not so see him and staring at her computer. Mike just came in; the police are booting out every person in that apartment upstairs who isn't on the lease. In response, Birdie uttered the cry he's been saying all night: "Yippie tie yie yay, motherfucker!"
A fun Saturday night.