Knock, Knock. Who's There? Heroin!

The last time I moved out of my parents house, I moved in to a quaint little apartment by myself. I could have moved in with my wonderful boyfriend, or in with roommates. Heck, I could have stayed with my parents, (AKA my forever roomies), who were very cool and accommodating. Being 23, however, I sensed the need for pure independence coming along, and fast. I've always done things I personally consider independent, yet living on my own was in my mind the true test. So for the past 2 years, I have been living solo, supporting myself, in downtown Albuquerque. (*Since I'm certain only my mother and one other friend read this blog, there is no need to screen this post and am allowing the general area of my habitations to be revealed).

At this time, most people who live in other parts of Albuquerque, who are vaguely familiar with the city, or who have ever seen COPS are gasping at the idea of me, a single girl, living downtown, alone...in Albuquerque. I am completely aware of the reputation that looms behind this neighborhood and the activities and people that associate with it. Mostly, in the past 2 years, I have had the pleasure to deal mainly with drunk people stumbling their way home. Occasionally there has been a person passed out near my door step, or asked me for money. Sure, A crazy-crack-head-woman stumbled through my backyard and lost her top, and continued running the streets Girls Gone Wild style. (Note to self, don't do meth). These things, as unfortunate as they may sound, are to be expected when you live within 6 blocks of crummy bars. Why do you think I reside in this hood? Yes, so I too can participate in liver depleting drinking games at bars and not acquire the official NM stamp of approval. A DWI. (Sooo, 2004).

While this is all understood, and living Dtown does come with a territory, there is never a shortage of taking precautionary measures to ensure the utmost safe conditions. Crime has no address, yet this past weekend, it tried to define mine as it's home...twice. Maybe some mase and a baseball bat by the door is not common practice in everyone's home, as it is mine. Am I scared about living alone here? No. Am I cautious about living here? Definitely.

The first of these off-beat stories comes early on a Saturday morning. My bedroom window backs up to a shared courtyard I have with about 8 other people. (All nice, older, corky, cat loving individuals....no threats here). But being rudely awoken by loud door banging and screams by APD isn't my cup of tea. In my discombobulated state, I couldn't actually tell if they were in fact knocking on my door or not. Simultaneously and quickly rolling over, nevertheless, The Man and I go to peek out the blinds. Modest as the boyfriend is, he just parts the blinds to catch a snippet of the action, where as the aggressiveness of my personality wants the whole show. We draw the blinds up, and like young kids watching a movie on the living room floor, we lay on our stomachs, hands under our chins, and watch. We lay there, and watch as 8 people are lead out of the apartment on this very early and not to mention chilly Saturday morning by APD with their guns drawn and pointed. Long story short, helloooooo heroin bust! I guess the new tenant was a little less than what most people call a law abiding citizen.

Honestly, as long as it wasn't a meth lab where Fifi and I could blow up, and my high-as- a-kite neighbors were friendly, I don't care what mind altering substances they take part in. I believe it was the multiple stolen cars parked out front, the 8 people they had stuffed like sardines in a 500sqft apartment, and drug use at 7 am that captured the concern of the authorities and my surrounding neighbors, alike. Oh well, not my problem anymore...and my landlord felt the same way, can I get an eviction up in here!!!

The second incident this past weekend actually pressed me to call the police. Sunday evening I was laying around reading The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins (and we thought heroin was addicting) when a loud banging comes at my front door. (Note, I do have a metal security gate which provides a decent amount of reassurance against these crazy folk). My front door itself is all windows, so I could obviously see that this was not my boyfriend or any other friend stopping by for a cup of sugar. And when you come to my door, banging to be let in, and I am a girl who lives alone, in downtown Albuquerque, you better believe I am not as nice as one would in fact suspect. Within seconds of this kid trying to open my door and screaming at me to let him in because "they were coming to kill him," I phoned the police. I let my 'guest' know I was calling and he slurred that was a good idea. (This is the point my knees began to shake a bit. Shit, if "they" were indeed "coming to kill him," I didn't want "them" to kill me either). So in a phrase laced with a few more profanities than I will be writing about, I asked him to leave.

The dispatcher and I spoke on the phone while I gave her a full description of my crazy porch guest, and as she began giving me a lecture on race, I cut her off and asked if there were indeed cops on the way yet, because let's get real, I'm about to be a victim of a home invasion, and she is upset that I am unable to identify this man's race. How about the approximate age range I provided, clothing, approximate height, hair cut, obvious tattoo on his arm...will that suffice as a "general" description lady? How about who the F cares, my home is potentially getting broken into, send me police NOW! (Clearly, she is a product of the Albuquerque Public School system, sorry mom). Regardless, the man left, the police arrived 10 minutes later ( FYI, a woman gets rapped every 39 seconds in the United States, good thing APD was in a hurry that night), and all was well. As a matter of fact, the police told me (this is an actual statement) when they arrived that they "thought they saw a man with my description doing push ups further down the road." WTF?

Fifi and I are safe, and though I do love my little apartment, are in the process of house hunting. No, it has nothing to do with not wanting to reside in the downtown area, but moving in with The Man, so someone else will be obligated to clean the litter box!

Happy Friday!