LUNKHEADED

Part 14

I'm on old-fashioned dude and I usually prefer to do my own legwork when it comes to finding jobs or apartments. I'd always preferred just getting a newspaper, a red pen, coffee and cigarettes, and spending a few hours on the phone. But with school staring soon and the Appliance at death's door, we had to find a place fast. The three of us went into one of those apartment finder services that used to dot Broadway avenue back in those days and told them our parameters-big, cheap, and fast. We found a 1000 square foot loft on Wolcott in Wicker Park right off the bat, but the agent seemed skeptical.

"That's a raw loft..." he said, rubbing his chin.

What does 'raw' mean, we wondered. He told us it usually meant it had exposed wiring, or old floors and ceilings.

"But, this is a RAW loft..."

The second he got the jiggly lock undone and the rickety door swung open we knew it was the place for us. Oh, it was a dump, all right. It was a GLORIOUS dump! The wiring hung from old pipes, the bathroom was the size of a closet and the kitchen was no bigger. It was directly next to the el tracks, so the windows didn't open. The floor was uneven and splintery. The neighborhood was sketchy as all hell, and despite the fact that it was October, the "heater" was already broken. The "heater" was just a huge fan with a heating element behind it. It didn't look like it could keep this fucking cave warm but there was no way to test it, and the agent assured us that they have it fixed soon (it would be mid-January, in fact).

So, it was dirty, rickety, stuffy, and in a real gnarly neighborhood. But, it was also HUGE and more importantly, it was ours. Me, Pete, and Ray. At first.

The first day was spent moving all of our respective stuff down too the city and getting settled in. Me and Pete loaded up the Appliance to it's breaking point and headed south, while Ray filled his parents' van and met us down there. We spent the day unpacking and yanking bongs. We realized we were the only ones with roof access and quickly made it our own party patio. There was an old elevator shed up there, too, so we had a little cabana for when it rained.

Later that night, the three of us went out for burritos and stopped to grab ourselves each a forty ouncer of malt liquor on the way back to the loft. I stopped on Milwaukee avenue to use a payphone to call my girl Cassandra because our phone wasn't on yet, setting my bottle on the payphone while i dug out my calling card. It was around midnight on a sunday and the streets were deserted, adding an air of privacy to my call. Cassandra picked up and we'd been chatting for a minute when an old, busted-up station wagon sidled up to the curb next to me. I turned to look and it contained about eight older mexican dudes. Way older, like my dad's age. I could smell the alcohol fumes from eight feet away and my alarms were all going nuts. I made on excuse to get off the phone, grabbed my beer and started walking quickly towards the loft with my head down. Their car started to move slowly, keeping pace.

"Hey man, we jus' wanna taaaalk to you..." they called to me as I picked up the pace, muttering something about not needing to talk to them.

I knew I was in big trouble. I was still a block from the loft, and if the guys (or another tenant) had closed the deadbolt, I was fucked, I had no key for it. The mexicans were right next to me, hanging out of their car, hollering and gesturing at me, while I strode forward staring straight ahead, knowing I had to make a move or it was gonna get really ugly. So, when I reached the corner I BOLTED down Wolcott, hearing their wheels screech in response as they tore around the corner-I knew this might be it. One hand held my forty and the other was digging through my pockets for my keys as I ran full-speed down the street. I got to my front porch and their car was right on top of me and I couldn't get my keys and I knew I was outta time and I had to do something and, almost instinctively, I reared back and FIRED my 40 ouncer at their windshield and bolted up the steps without even watching it hit. I heard the smashing glass as my hand touched the doorknob. I stole a glance back and the car was lurching up onto the sidewalk, it's occupants pouring out. I grabbed the knob and IT WAS UNLOCKED! I threw the giant metal door open and dove inside, slamming the big deadbolt home as they hit the door, pounding and screaming. The adrenalin was really pumping and I knew I was safe now, so I started taunting them throught the mailslot.

"FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS!!! WHOO-HOO!!! COME GET ME, COCKSUCKERS!!!!" I screamed at them.

A bunch of my new neighbors *(none of whom I'd ever met) came running to see what all the commotion was about. Someone went to call the police and I introduced myself around, apologizing for the insanity and promising them that it wouldn't be the norm. But it would.

That night we met the Sculptresses. The Sculptresses were these two Brazilian women who lived down the hall from us. They were lesbians, without question the two hottest authentic lesbians I'd ever seen (Hustler magazine lesbians don't count. Um, they're not really lesbians. Sorry). But then again, every once in a while I'd see them with a couple yuppie-looking dudes, and then I'd hear them getting the shit fucked outa them a few hours later. But, other than occasional yuuppie dude, I was positive these chicks weren't into men. They butched their hair, smoked weed, drank, hung all over each other, one of them punched Pete in the face for no reason, and generally acted like dudes. Looking back, I'd say they were hookers. That'd explain most of it. One of the two of them (I never learned eithers' name) was a bronze sculptress and despite the old, solid nature of the building the walls were incredibly thin and we could hear everything that went on in each others apartments. So we came to the agreement that we wouldn't complain about their pounding brass if they didn't complain about us skateboarding or having band practice in our place. It was a good deal.