The guy that lives in my basement is a total crackhead. It's either that or he has a serious case of PTSD, which is entirely possible. He reminds me of a coyote. A talking coyote that is on a fuckload of cocaine. If I were to choose an animal to represent Crackhead Chris, in all of his haphazardly temperamental and beleaguering charisma, it would definitely be a very tall coyote on a fuckload of cocaine.
He moved to the building a couple months ago. His parents and Al the Landlord's parents are old BFFs from Ireland, and when Crackhead Chris got home from Iraq, Al gave him the open basement apartment as a family favor. I first met him at about 5am Thanksgiving morning, and we were wasted and throwing drawers (like wooden drawers, not skivvies) and looking for cash. That, however, will be another story. This is just the set up.
Crackhead Chris sells Gatorade and Halls Defense cough drops by the gajillion. There are boxes of that shit all over the basement. One time he knocked on my door, gave me a handful of cough drops from his coat pocket, kissed the air and disappeared down the stairs, rambling in a jiffy on his cell phone the whole time. I put them in a bowl and threw them away a week later because they made me nervous.
Sometimes he just comes over, chats for fifteen minutes at hypersonic speeds and abruptly leaves. Our conversations have no rhythm or logic to them, we both just talk, uninterrupted, at the exact same time. It makes sense to do things this way since his sentences never have any reasonable flow in the first place, and go something like, "Baby, you ever been to LA? I like clouds. Cumulus and shit. Do you have any tape? Like clear scotch tape? My balls itch, sorry, hold on. You know one time I dropped a box of Gatorade on my foot and it hurt like a bitch. Babe, your chandelier looks like a spider. Would you get mad if I shaved in your bathroom? Those are fucking Double Dare pants, that shit cray. Your clock is wrong, or is it me? I used to play the stock market but I had no idea what I was doing and I lost like six fucking grand I shit you fucking not. And it was like, oh, hey, have you ever had kwi-no-ah? I mean, keenwuh...quinoa... awe, heart, I could eat the fuck out of some andouille." And then he puts his hand on my boob and I tell him to go home.
It is starting to get very tiring.