Crackheads

I wake every morning not to the sound of an alarm, nor to a phone call; nay, not even do I wake to the sound of a cock's crow. An interesting feature of my urban life is the institution of the crackhead whose cries wake me each morning at a different hour. One morning a man (evidently) got into a woman's car and refused to get out:

Crazy chick: Get out of my car
Sitting guy: Naw
Crazy chick: Get the fuck out of my car
Sitting guy: Chill baby
Crazy chick: GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR. GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAR. GET YOUR FUCKING ASS OUT OF MY CAR... etc, etc.
Some other chick: Just get out of her car

One morning at 5:45 it was a man in a beater truck, the back filled with trash bags, blasting Rage Against the Machine while he stood leaning against the cab smoking a cigarette, or maybe a spike?

Today it was a man yelling at some chick that she's crazy and he wishes he had never met her. Then she started crying, and by crying I mean screaming hysterically, then he called her a bitch, a c---, etc. This went on for about fifteen minutes before a siren called once and an officer evidently calmed them down.

Crackheads are not just a nuisance in the morning. They will harass you in broad daylight. They will stumble toward you as you hurry home from the grocery store and ask you indecipherable questions. They are everywhere and they are never going away. Just as the war on drugs can never be won, the crackhead in its modern form is a permanent feature in society.

People talk about rapists and muggers and thieves, but the only ones you need really fear are the rapists, muggers and thieves who are also crackheads. Anyone can expect to avoid a rational rapist by staying on lit streets, but a crackhead rapist could strike at any time.

Case in point: I walk every workday at 4 pm to the mailbox up the block to deposit the day's outgoing mail. The street is very busy, with many people out walking, cars passing, and so on. One sunny day as I approached the mail box a short man with a rickety step approached me. He was wearing a heavy, tan-colored coat with a tan beanie. I didn't notice his pants or shoes. I'd have thought nothing of it except he slowed his steps as I approached, as if he were timing a greeting between characters in a film. I made brief eye contact with him and he mumbled something as I put the mail in the box.

"Look at me-" he said in a quiet voice that glistens in a way, like Michael Jackson when he describes aloud the magic of children. "What?" says I. "You heard me." He closed his eyes for half a second. "Um, I'm sorry, I didn't." "Get away from me." "I'm sorry I didn't hear you before." "You heard me. Get away from me you bitch." "I really didn't hear you." Then he lunged at me and I took off running the one block to work. He followed me at a distance of maybe 15 feet for about half the block then he screamed out "CUNT!"

I'm not suggesting that this man wanted to or could have injured me, what with the number of people around, but his crackhead-like tendency to flip-the-fuck-out at me in broad daylight highlights the fact that crackheads will not follow normal criminal operating procedure.

The only solace is that if a crackhead had a gun he would surely pawn it for some crack money.