Knock Knock Knock
Ummmm why isn't he answering?
Knock KNOCK KNOCK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKKK
Ok. Wow. He doesn't want me to come in. But, I'm just drunk enough to knock ONE more time.
KNOCKK KNOCKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKK KNOCKKKKKKKKKKKKK
"Um, hey. Are we being too loud?" My neighbor asks as he blocks the door and my view to the kitchen.
"No, what are ya'll doing?" I say as I try to look around him and into the apartment....hoping that I get invited in.
"Nothing. Talking. Do you need something?" My neighbor looks around nervously as the smell of pot seeps out of his apartment and into my nose.
"Oh, well, if you put it like that. No. I just wanted to have a glass of wine with ya'll." By this point I feel broken and shot down.
"Then by all mean, Miss. Have a seat and help yourself to the whiskey."
My neighbor: a 60 year old, Irish-American, Leukemia survivor who loves Irish whiskey, an interesting mix of John Mayer and Johnny Cash, marijuana, and company. Since I moved to the Greenstone in January, I've seen him maybe 10 times...once at the bar, a couple times in the parking lot, and once when he had his friends play Irish jams in the courtyard of the apartment.
Tonight I came in from the bar around midnight and was greeted by music flowing from apartment #1. As I trek up the three floors to let Mack out to pee, I decide to pour a glass of wine and join my neighbor and friends for the rest of the night.
Once let in the apartment, I immediately recognized a character from the Irish jam band night. Felix and I refer to him as Mark Twain. Twain is an average height, thin man sporting a mean, white mustache, large sunken eyes, and a floppy, brown felt hat. Oh, and believe it or not, he's a writer. And not just your run of the mill writer either. He's 60+ years old. And writes science fiction. And told me about a girl named Amanda that he wrote a trilogy about....and she was mildly freaked out by it. I mean, who can blame her? I would be fucking creeped out if a man 30 years my senior wrote a fucking trilogy about me too. He claims she enjoyed the first book but got too bored to read the other two books....righhhhttttt.
Ok, well. Fuck. I wrote everything above around 4 am and have completely forgotten the details of all of the stories I wanted to tell. I blame it on the wine and the multiple buttery nipples my new gay friends bought for me at Celtic Crossing.
But, what I do remember, is that we talked about our Irish heritage for the better part of the night, errr, morning. Mark Twain bragged about getting kicked out of an Irish bar in Brooklyn for being mistaken as an undercover cop, my neighbor promised to bake some Irish soda bread for me, we all tried out our best Irish accents, and I let them in on my Irish middle name, McCormack. Other than that, all I remember is learning some history of the building we live in and my neighbor forcing me to take his favorite book to read.
As I was leaving around 3:30 am, my neighbor gave me a big, warm hug, looks me in the eyes, and says, "You have really made my night. I've lived here for two years and no one has ever knocked on my door wanting to come in and visit with me. You my dear, are wonderful. Thank you."
If he was about 30 years younger, attractive, and had offered me one more glass of wine, I would have responded with, "Kiss me. I'm Irish."
Until next time lads,
Merekat
