It’s 10:22 am on Easter Sunday and me and my roommates begin to hear someone yelling outside, “I’m down here!” He then mutters repeatedly, “Where are you, muthafucka?” We peek outside and ascertain that Mr. Black Man with Unrealistically White Shoes has spotted the shoes hanging from the power lines outside our apartment. Or rather, the power lines outside the apartment of the crack dealer who lives across the street. He clearly needs a fix but doesn’t know which apartment the shoes are signaling. So he does the best he can by announcing his presence and hoping for the best.
The guy yells again, in a Barry White voice that booms all the way down to Mission Street, “I’M DOWN HERE!” He then pulls out a wad of money and begins to count it in a very obvious way.
Alas, our neighborhood drug dealer is not awake yet, and Barry White ambles on down the street, muttering and counting his money.
UPDATE: Jack says, “Oh look, drug dealer’s awake. Omg that guy has no pants on. That just ruined my life.”
