Friday, March 14th, 2003

I'm in bed with Susannah trying to sleep. We live on a high floor above a courtyard between two projects. It's late at night (2 or 3 AM) and we're awakened by the sound of young kids yelling. I look out the window and see a bunch of schoolgirls on one side of the courtyard yelling at schoolboys on the other side. I yell for them to shut up, that people are trying to sleep. They start yelling back at us. Suddenly, a brick comes through one of our windows. I look out a different window and see that a man (maybe one of the kids' parents) threw it. I dial 911 and report the incident. As I describe the situation, a woman on a nearby roof below us starts repeatedly throwing bricks through our windows. I'm sneaking peeks at her and trying to describe her to the police. The 911 operator tells me to hand up and they'd call me baclk. They said to make sure the woman outside could hear it ring. When it rings, I hold it near the window. I let it ring too many times and end up missing the call. I call the police back but don't get through the first time.

Now I'm in a neighborhood bar, still on the phone to the police. One of the people who yelled at me is in the bar (but doesn't recognize me). I'm trying to duck behind the bar to make my call. The young bartender shakes up a bottle of champagne and shoots it all over the room, getting my shirt soaked. A guy I know walks by and says blithely, "This isn't even the wettest I've been." I say, "Well, I guess my life sucks less than yours." I sit down at a booth with two Latino guys. One of them teases me, saying, "There are some more Martinez (a Latino cowboy clothing company) shirts waiting for you at the mall."

Now the brick-throwing woman is also in the bar.