ROOM FOR RENT
I live in a house with three other room mates. Big back yard, swimming pool, porch, stairs and the whole shit.
Larry fries fish and chicken on the weekends, Jackie keeps a fresh roll of toilet paper in the baffroom, and I often host my four year old son or an escort from backpage.com. Needless to say, a happy black home.
Four months ago we welcomed Scott to the family. 45 years old, works in insulation installation, clean, respectful bruva. He took the room next to mine. Shit was cool from the jump. Scott often kept to himself, often found going H.A.M. in Black Ops on his 57 inch flat screen. My only beef with him was that at night time, he would clear his throat for hours.
Two things in life I hate – Bitches crunching shit, and niggas clearing they throat. Don’t know what it is. I’ve literally broke up with chicks over a bag of potato chips. I hate unnecesarily loud crunching with a passion. I once grabbed a bag of Cheetos from a woman’s hands and threw them out the window without a single word spoken. Sat back down and put my hand on her thigh. Eccentric maybe, but I do what I does. As for the throat shit, I know where that comes from. My mother used to date this dude named Clem Collins who used to beat me up when she wasn’t home. Sadistic nigga. I was 14 and I spit in a cup before I left the house one day. Forgot to throw the shit out and left it on the kitchen counter. When I came home Clem lost his shit. Beat me with a belt and shoved my head in the toilet. Needless to say, he was making the point that I should spit in the toilet and not in a cup. The lesson was lost in translation at the time, but I kinda see what he’s saying today. Anyways, that nigga used to clear his throat all the fuckin time. Nuff said.
Three in the morning…uchhh uchhh echhhh ecccchhhhhhhhh. Shit drove me crazy. Otherwise….he was good money. I aint really fuck with Scott much, since I secretly hated his existence on the count of that bitch ass throat shit, but we kept shit cordial.
This morning at 7:30AM, I’m awoken by Scott. He’s in the hallway. “Yo Dave! I need you to do me a favor!” WTF? We never kick it, and now you want me to do you a solid on some 7:30 shit???? So I twist my lips up and look at the door sideways. Don’t say shit. This nigga again. “Daaaaave! I need you to call an ambanance!” Just playin, he pronounced ambulance correctly. So I get up with the quickness, grab my T-Mobile Comet, and bust out the door. Ole boy is leaned up against the wall huffin and puffin like Trees when he ran from the dudes that Robbed Reilleyed him on Mass Ave. for his bullshit ass wallet.
Side note, I’m a crisis intervention specialist. I thrive under these circumstances.When I was briefly in prep school (Governors Academy) I snuck off campus to attend a house party at this rich yt’s house in Lynnfield Mass. 50 freshmen drinking Vodka and Manischevitz. The bitch throwing the party was a fellow Joo and we just drank what was in her parents’ bar; Hence the Manischevitz. Fuck it, I’ll give you her guvament. Wendy Swartz. Wendy, if you’re reading this, I’m still DTF. Attending the party was Josh Pike. This caveman (YT) had that Elephant Man face shit. Some rich couple (who were touched by the movie Mask) in Vermont adopted him early and put him in all types of LL Bean preppy shit like it was gonna hide the fact that his face was all lumped up. If ugly was pretty Josh Pike would be a perfect 10. Looked like Mitch Green after Tyson was done with him – plus a cleft pallot. So deep into the night, Josh is twisted on Jameson and decides he wanna commit suicide due to his mangled face and shit. Don’t you know I not only gave that disfigured YT the Tony Robbins speech of his life – but also convinced Maureen Cappadonna to suck his dick? True story. And I was doin that shit as a frosh.Back to Scott.
I say, “You sure you want me to call 911 cuz this some serious shit!”
I rides with Dipset, and I know Mr. Giles would’nt approve of me calling sqwally unless it was some life and death shit. “I need an ambunance.” At least that’s how I heard it. So I call. “Mass. State Police, this is Saaaahjent Irish Cracker, this call is being recorded.” That’s not a direct quote, but this the realest shit I ever wrote. I’m in my zone. “Yes, I need an ambunance at blahzay blah Hyde Park Ave. Symptoms are diziness, nausea, unable to stand up, and this nigga talked to me for the first time in 4 months so shit’s serious.” Poetic license. O.k, so the shit’s on the way.
At this time, Scott has shorts, flip flops, and a wife beater on. I got this. “Scott, the ambanance is on the way – you need to get some clothes on and get your shit together.” He takes one step and almost falls out. Unphased, I get on some genuine gay shit and wrap my arms around him from behind. I’m now bracing him. On some Weekend At Bernie’s shit, I’m guiding him around his room instructing him to get his glasses, keys, wallet and jacket. Swag. I brace him down the stairs as I notice every step involves his ass brushing up against my shit. With every step I tell myself I’m a hero.
I sit him down on the Bob’s Furniture couch in the living room and tell him the annonance will be here shortly. “How you doin Scott?”
This is where shit gets trill. “Dave…” I cringe because I hate being called Dave. David. Fucking David. My name is David. Da fucking Vid. Is it so hard? I introduced myself as David, faggot. Respect my shit.
“Dave….I tried to kill myself this morning. Lotta shit in my life aint good.” I’m a Crisis Intervention Specialist. This aint shit. “Scott, how did you try to kill yourself this morning?” His hands are shaking and shit. “Pills.” I was visibly unshaken. Inside, I proclaimed, “THIS NIGGA!”
“OK, the annunanse will be here shortly, are the pills still upstairs?” Suicide Scott responds, “Yeah, they on the floor.” I dash up the stairs of my Hyde Park Victorian with hardwood floors to Scotts room. On some E! True Hollywood shit, there’s an empty bottle of Trazadone on the floor surrounded by pills scattered under the bed.
It all hits me like that scene in Usual Suspects. The ending part. I seen it like a Zenith. Scott was alone at home on Thanksgiving. Scott was at home alone on Christmas. He’s 45 years old playing Black Ops in his room. What kind of name is Scott for a black man? It was obvious that this is a lonely depressed dude. I would have completely felt sorry for him if it wasn’t for the throat thing.
I go back downstairs with pills in hand as the EMT and Babylon knock on the door. They come in and start asking him shit. First question is a doozy. “Have you ever attempted suicide before?” Kill Scott Heron responds, “Yeah, in Providence.” Once again my inner voice screams, “THIS NIGGA!”
Yadda yadda yadda, they take him to Faulkner Hospital, and I’m 20 minutes late for work.
The point is, I saved a life today. I may not be on Conan performing ad libs for Sammy Adams, but God damnit I make a difference in this world.
All that to say, if anyone needs a room – $520/month including cable/utilities close to Forest Hills T and Atlas Liquors, hit me up. No crunchers or throat clearers. Thank you