There comes a moment in life when one experiences clarity (and realizes she could actually be in an episode of Jerry Springer). The prerequisites are:
1) Someone is (ready to punch out somebody else's) light
2) At least one participating party has an IQ (of a light bulb)
3) Sex / jealousy / innocent bystanders / babies are involved
4) Popcorn (beer, weed, headphones) would be welcomed by onlookers
I recently moved to an adorable apartment in the Belmont neighborhood (which is really the same region I previously inhabited). It's a safe community, with cafes, flowery front yards, hipsters (and occasional parents trying to fuck as their children chalk the sidewalks). Turn the corner and find a neighborhood block party, or paper bags with handwritten notes welcoming strangers to have their fruit, books, and t-shirts. (Nothing bad could happen here.)
And yet... (this is kind of how Truman Capote begins In Cold Blood, except obviously I'm more eloquent.)
It was another balmy summer evening, and I was heading home from the park. I happened to be chatting on my cell phone (naively distracted from goings-on in the physical realm). Out of the darkness came a rather foreboding "meow." I approached the cat (who was a kitten in size but walked like an incontinent old man). My cell phone died (such that I was cut off from All People Worth Talking To). I was alone. I was vulnerable (a young, petite woman standing on a dark street). The cat had a oversized batman tag that read "Willie."
I left, but (little did I know,) I was being followed. I reached my doorstep, and all hell broke loose. Chubs (our house cat) freaked out (stringy black hair on end, green eyes glowing with hatred) like a motherfucker (in all senses of the word). Willie waited on the sidewalk, perhaps expecting to gain entry into my house, but Chubs would only allow it over his dead cat body.
(Okay. Nothing actually went down. But now you get an indication of the general crime-scene in Southeast Portland, and how parentheses make everything more interesting.)
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