Crackheads In My Building
I have this bit that I do about a run-in with a “crackhead” in my apartment building (his true drug of choice was more likely meth or heroin). The bit is actually based on a true story. Well, everything except me calling the police. I didn’t do that. I just talked shit to the guy and made him leave. Actually, Peter was there as well. He went into his bouncer mode.
- Mannen, det är dags att dra nu!
The thing that bothered me about it was Bash being scared. I really went into protective father mode in that situation. Bash actually said it was a ghost.
Every now and then I hear the damn crackheads up there by the attic. And every time I think about Bash’s little scared, confused face and I get angry and want those motherfuckers out of the building.
I know it seems insensitive and whatnot but I really don’t care. We can argue if there should be better safety nets provided by the Swedish government to take care of those with problems with addiction. Bring me a petition and I’ll sign it in order to make shit better. Shit I’ll vote for the party that wants to help them. But what I don’t want is these mofos in my apartment building under the influence of who-knows-what.
Last Wednesday I went up before work to leave something in the attic and lo and behold… a muthafuckin crackhead was up there asleep. I was tempted to wake him up and ask him to leave but I didn’t feel like arguing or making a commotion. I was glad that I had chosen to take the stuff up to the attic myself because Sandra had planned to take it up later (probably with kids in tow) and it’s better that I was the one that stumbled upon him. I was annoyed that our building management hasn’t done anything about these crackheads. They’ve broken into some people’s attic spaces (ours included) and everything. What gives?
So yesterday I woke up at 4:50am like normal. I passed the front door on my way to the bathroom and heard a loud noise. It sounded like someone was vacuuming spoiled milk. I thought to myself, “There’s no fucking way that’s a crackhead snore”. I opened the door and the vacuuming was even closer. There was a got damn crackhead up there snoring away. He was likely getting that good heroin/Michael Jackson sleep.
This made me angry. Snoring reverberating from up there throughout the entire hall was my last straw. I woke Sandra up and asked her the non-emergency police number. You’re got damn right I was gonna snitch! Enough was enough. Surprisingly, the po-pos actually showed up. I went in full “wholesome American guy” mode out of reflex. I swear police beating my ass for no reason is always a fear lying in the back of my mind.
I showed the cops where the “perpetrator” was and they woke his ass up and escorted him out of there. This is where you applaud. Or? I wondered if I was supposed to feel bad for the guy. I didn’t, but should I have? He could have been a harmless dude with problems. But then again he also could have been a threat to my family. I’m not trying to find that shit out the hard way. So call me a snitch all you want. At least I know my family is safe. Plus I have more material. Everybody wins! Until next time…