Note to self: to have a blog, you must actually write in it. Gotcha.
I live in a neighborhood where some of the most corrupt Chicago politicians are from (including Chicago’s current mayor, Richard M. Daley - isn’t that nice?). Bridgeport - a little Chicago neighborhood on the South Side that consists of White Sox fans, Irish people, and families. And of course, surrounded by neighborhoods that consist of projects and lots of unsavory characters. Overall, a nice neighborhood that is quiet and relatively safe. Enter: my building. The building I live in is much like the new construction apartments that are popping up everywhere in the city. Tall and narrow, three floors. I live in the middle apartment with two of my closest friends who were in the same local sorority that I was in at Illinois Tech. Pretty standard story, right?
Wrong.
Our landlord’s name is such that if you put his first and last names together, you pretty much get Michelangelo (yeah, the TMNTurtle). He’s extremely Irish, with the accent and mob attitude to boot. So, we call him Michelangelo (never to his face, of course - but that’s how we address him between us).
The people in our building are even better.
When we moved in (last August), there was a small, quiet family living below us, and no one living above us. A short time later, a family moved in above us - pretty quiet and innocent at first. We all call them the Dirties - so I will refer to them as such from here on out. They’re actually anything but quiet. I don’t want to give away so many good stories in their introduction to everyone, so I’ll just write a few words. Screaming, yelling, loud, angry, large, and lazy.
A few months later, the boyfriend of the woman who had a family below us broke up with her, and she couldn’t afford the apartment anymore - so she had to move. Introducing: The Nasties.
Below us live crazy ghetto white crack heads. Seriously. Michelangelo calls them “nice boys…”, but they’re freaking ridiculous. First these two guys lived there with who we think was one of their mothers and her boyfriend. The boyfriend was rumored to be the head of some gang and was crazy looking - he had no legs and sat in a wheelchair - and his face looked rough like old leather - not to mention he just looked cracked out. The mother and boyfriend moved out (evidently because they were causing problems?), and we think they now have two baby mamas living down there. We hear them scream about drugs and money and garbage on a weekly basis. The cops have paid them a visit on drug-related incidents, domestic disturbances, and full-out craziness. Example: we once heard one of the guys shout (we heard him clearly in our apartment): “I’ve got the drugs, I’ve got the money, I’ve got the POWER!”.
On that note - this should give me a good launch pad for other blogs - seeing as I have many great stories to tell about both sets of crazies.
What kind of people live in your building? I would love to think my situation is pretty hilarious, but alas - I know that I’m not really the most interesting person in the world. Please leave me hilarious stories!