From My Window
In Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, a man witnesses a murder from the window of his apartment happening in the building across the street. He is faced with the dilemma of what to do. Should he call the police? Rush over there? Close the blinds and jerk-off to a porn flick? Close the blinds and jerk-off to a Barney The Dinosaur video? Close the blinds and jerk-off to a Justin Bieber video?
The wheelchair bound Christopher Reeves played this role in a remake of Rear Window, probably because his phone wasn’t ringing off the hook for Superman offers with scripts about how Superman has to have his diaper changed by a full-time attendant. I think in that production they had him call the police and then rolled the credits, as he couldn’t quite “rush” over there from his handicap-unfriendly building and jerking-off was not an option as his dick wouldn’t get hard even if you gave him a copy of the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee sex tape and he watched it in the same room with Tom Cruise standing on a copy of Dianetics in order to give head to his boyfriend. The play died, and as was the custom of his wife, she died soon after.
I, too, have a similar dilemma. Not in which video to jerk-off to, that’s a no-brainer—Justin Bieber video [See “Legal Child Porn” http://rebelyogi.com/legal-kiddy-porn.html]. Nor do I suffer from the problem of erectile dysfunction, despite having my un-blog spammed by unethical Viagra companies [See comments under “Witness” http://rebelyogi.com/witness.html] In fact, I am hard 24/7 unless I happen to be within a 3-mile radius of a Tom Cruise movie. From my window I witness a crime occurring every day. That crime is the crime of fat people walking by. But while this crime is not legally on the books yet, the crime that I see each day that is listed as a criminal offense is drug dealing.
It took me about three days to know the whole operation, how it worked and who the main players were. I saw how it went down, where the drugs were stored, who bought, how the dealers communicated with each other and how the drug supply was replenished.
The Main Player, who I also call the “Captain,” always wears a Yankee baseball cap. He is a Hispanic young man around twenty-eight in age. He usually wears jeans and a black T-shirt. Sometimes he wears a maroon T-shirt and a matching maroon baseball cap. I personally prefer the black outfit better but respect his taking a chance on the color maroon, which many have a hard time puling off successfully. The fact that he wears his jeans “proper” and not ass-out almost gives him a free pass from me to do whatever the hell he wants.
The Captain ties a black garbage bag to a tree on the sidewalk. In it he puts the bag of drugs that he uses to distribute to the buyers. Only the Captain has access to the garbage bag and can be seen frequently digging his hand in the bag all the way to the shoulder—reminding me of some loose women that I’ve been with—where he pulls from a brown paper lunch bag that contains the goods. I have seen people hand him money and him hand them drugs. He also hands off drugs to his crew, who sell to not only the neighborhood crackheads but also to cars that pull up from God knows where. Well God, where are they from? You don’t know? Useless!
Needless to say, like a chocolate bar in the hands of a fat kid, a small lunch bag filled with drugs will soon find itself swallowed. To keep the drugs always at a level that will meet demand, the Captain will either pull some of the drug supply he has in the immediate area, such as on the ledge of the building entrance he stands in front of across the street or from a bag that he stores hooked under the bumper of a car parked by his pharmacy. His car of choice is this white van that is often parked there, although I once saw what looked like a small meter maid buggy that seemed to be a drug stash.
Another supply is in my building in a room on the 4th floor. It is the apartment of the “First Lieutenant,” another 28ish Hispanic guy, who usually wears mildly droopy jeans, a white wife-beater tank and biggish glasses by today’s the-smaller-the-better-in-everything-but-cock society. He is in charge of replenishing the marketplace from this source and can often be seen bounding up the steps and coming down with either a brown paper lunch bag or a black baggy full of product. I’ve seen the First Lieutenant also enter another apartment on the first floor and wonder whether he “rents” both, an implication that the drug dealing business is lucrative, for having two apartments even in a shitty neighborhood like mine still requires some bank. God, any idea? All-knowing my ass!
Periodically the Underwear Man pushes his shopping cart on the block, offering such deals as three tank tops for $10. One early morning I saw the Underwear Man come by when no one, not even the Captain, was there. Only the black garbage bag was hanging from the tree like a freshly lynched Negro. I saw him pull many rolled-up “socks” from his cart and start to stuff them into the garbage bag. Sure, it’s possible that the Captain had gave him a twenty-spot earlier for a few fresh socks, as standing around all day selling drugs can turn one’s brown eyes blue pretty quickly but it is more likely that he was a “provider” unloading his stash. Another time I saw him give the Captain a gang-banger watch from his cart. The Captain looked at it, held it up to see how the light would bring out its bling, and then put it on.
A few of the crew, almost always including the First Lieutenant, will be doing some business in the stairwell of my floor. I saw the First Lieutenant put something in the ceiling and when they left I explored. I was hoping it was drugs that I could take back to my apartment, smoke in my crack pipe and get my high on while I jerked-off to Justin Bieber. Unfortunately, it was a key that looked like it belonged to some righteous lock. I have a feeling that he has some kind of storage bin or safe in his crib and he keeps the key separate.
I think this key storage and the drugs in the Hefty trick are designed to minimize ever being caught with the goods and charged with possession. It also means that even if one is caught with the goods, you go to court wearing a suit for a day and you’ll be back on the street with the majority of the stockpile still safe and protected. Despite all these protections, on the day of the shooting on my block, I can imagine the First Lieutenant must have shit his pants just a little when the cops banged on all of our doors and said, “POLICE.” [See “The Day i Died” http://rebelyogi.com/the-day-i-died]. Correction, he must have shit his drawers, as his pants are well distanced from his ass, drooped around his upper thighs and all.
An interesting addition is that I have seen my Super, who is far from “super” in handling her building responsibilities by the way, talking with Captain Yankee Cap on more than one occasion, which means she very well knows what the hell is going on and may actually be involved. I’m not saying she’s a main player but I do think she may be getting a kickback to allow them to use her apartment building—which is my apartment building—as storage and storefront.
I have seen her son, D-Bomb, hanging with the crew often and I am pretty sure that he is dealing as well. Which makes his comment once to me about how they (meaning he and his Super mom) were requesting from management for cameras to be put inside the buildings as phony as the political drug dealer John Kerry making the campaign promise that he would open access to Canada for cheap generic drugs, when a huge chunk of his election campaign financing was provided for by the pharmaceutical industry.
D-Bomb is a fat schlub who also has a suit job and so is essentially holding two jobs. Whenever I stop by his apartment asking for the upteenth time for some apartment work that needs to be done for which Super Mom keeps telling me “Tomorrow” and tomorrow never seems to come, he almost always looks as if he just woke up, wearing a white wife-beater and boxer shorts. I do think he should go to Fat & Dumpy and pick up a good tailored suit to fit his fat and dumpy body so when I see him going off to his suit job at least I can think, “He may be fat and dumpy but he sure wears that Fat & Dumpy suit well!”
So here is my Rear Window dilemma: I personally think drugs should be legalized, not because I care to use them but because I think that as long as you are not getting in a car wacked out of your skull and crashing into family sedans and SUVs that you should be able to do whatever the fuck you want. In addition, if you look at our prison system, it is filled with a lot of people who are rotting their lives away and being sodomized daily over minor drug offenses. Granted, all that sucking on a doobie has helped their blowjob skills.
I saw a saying once: DON’T STEAL! THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T LIKE COMPETITION. This could easily be changed to: DON’T SELL DRUGS… as our government and CIA are among the biggest drug dealers on the planet.
But besides the organized crime element, a lot of drug using is a victimless crime—besides victimizing your own sorry-ass self. So I should keep my big mouth shut, right?
Here’s the other side of the fence… While my few minor interactions with the Captain and also with one of his Privates was relatively pleasant, there is a lack of respect that this drug crew shows that makes me want to see them crash and burn. The fact that they have essentially taken over my building and the one across the street is a bit of a buy-out where I doubt most of the residents ever offered to “sell.” Seems a bit too “eminent domain” for my taste.
I constantly have to put up with them running up and down my stairwell, hearing them use those annoying cel phones with the walkie-talkie feature that beeps loudly when you send and receive a message, as this is how they tend to communicate. I suppose that is slightly better than how Ninja communicates but equally annoying.
I don’t particularly like how the drug-dealing Privates think it’s okay to come into my building when I open the door, flooding in like the team of cockroaches that scurry about every time I enter my kitchen. Not to mention the periodic crackhead who sneaks in like my shadow.
They seem to have no respect for anyone or anything but the “business.” They blast some crappy Reggae tone shit Spic music all hours of the night right across the street, which is probably my biggest source of tension; I feel like I’m in Waco and the Feds are blasting rock music 24/7 preparing to burn all of us alive and then pay their newspaper whores to say that we are a cult and that we burned ourselves up, despite the fact that we essentially kept to ourselves. Forgetting my somnambulistic butt, there are also tons of little children in my building as well. And that shitty music isn’t good for anyone to hear during the vulnerable 3:00 a.m. twilight period when you are busy agreeing to be billed $19.99 for the next four months from infomercials that look too good to be true because they are!
Who knows, maybe I’ll go to the cops and see what I could get out of turning informant. Maybe they would give me a fancy digital camera to take pictures of the wheeling and dealing that I could keep after my job is done. Maybe they will rip up the two tickets that some cowboy douche cop gave me for walking Abandon without tags. I could also use a little flash money so that I can finally buy those gold teef (that’s Ebonics for “teeth”) I’ve been eyeing.
More likely, if poverty keeps banging on my door and ignoring my call to, “Go away and send Death instead!” I’ll probably ask the Captain if I can join his private army. I was never good at taking orders from “superiors” but maybe I can rise in the ranks and get benefits—which probably means hookers and free crack versus medical and dental—and a matching pair of gold teef for me and Abandon. BAM!
REFLECTION:
What things in life do others do that bugs you? Why? Go deeper. For instance, “He throws his garbage on the sidewalk and I have to look at it!” So? So you look at it and walk by. I’m not a huge fan of littering either but why does it curl the hairs on the back of your neck or stay with you all day? Why would you let a litterer have so much power over your piece of mind?
MEDITATION:
Imagine yourself a Spirit walking around using the vehicle of your body. Perhaps you are only visiting, meaning that you will only be conscious that you are something more all-encompassing than just a body for a little time. Notice the world around you. You may see flowers and think they are beautiful. But doesn’t even the man throwing trash on the street have a similar beauty coming from this slightly detached, larger-view vantage point? You see an old couple holding hands. You see a young couple yelling at each other. Is there really a difference when you reside in the peace of awareness?
And now feel the Spirit leave the body. For a minute you rise with it, looking down at your body and the world it encompasses, not in a condescending way but in a physically above it way. And now find yourself snapped into your body, looking out of your eyes, having the same sensibility that you tend to walk around with each day. You are aware of what you have seen and with the eyes you have seen it with but now things seem to be more “important.” And while the flower still has a beauty, it is not the same calm beauty you felt before—because you have to get to an appointment and who really has time to smell the roses? And the litterer no longer seems beautiful but ugly. So ugly that your body tightens and your mind can’t stop thinking about it to the point where it even sends a message to your vocal chords to tell the bastard what you think of his actions.
What would life be like if you looked at it through Spiritual eyes instead of using your eyes as a vehicle for an angry mind? Perhaps everything would look a little more beautiful, no matter what its color or impact.