kethrai's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Birth of an urban legend I like an urban legend as much as the next chick, but once, I was priveleged to be present at the birth of one. Many moons ago, we lived in a rattrap apartment a few streets away. It had its series of issues, but the worst feature by far was actually directly across the street--the sole, only pay phone in the center of downtown. Cellphone usage was not as widespread by far, and by virtue of being the Sole Pay Phone in Downtown (a downtown distinguished by having nine bars in a four-block radius, and a healthy population of college students) the phone was extremely well-patronized, especially after last call and in the late afternoon when all the teenagers were calling their pot suppliers. It could get noisy, fights could break out, and on evenings when I didn't have to work in the morning I could eschew cable and watch the unfolding dramas across the street. My town is also not oversupplied with venues for the local teen population to hang out, so parking in the parking lot and chatting with buddies who were calling their pot suppliers on the phone was also a particularly fertile ground for the eavesdropper. One summer evening it had been particularly hopping over at the pay phone. Enough so that we had called the cops, and after an hour they still hadn't shown up. We both had to work in the morning, and after a couple of uneasy hours of slumber, a fight broke out loudly enough to actually rouse us from our bedroom at the back of the apartment to bring us out to the living room at the front, to see some number of folks squaring off in front of the Desired Property, the Promised Land...the goddamn pay phone. Darling Husband snarled something sleepfugged and obscene, strapped on a pair of sandals, grabbed a sword, and was out the door. Yes, mine is a House of Swords. Even before we were renrats, there was an appalling amount of cutlery in the house, ranging from some Starfires to a full-blown claymore, along with the decorative leg-shavers that I personally favor. We had long swords, short swords, overgrown pigstickers and tiny jacknives by the score (still do.) So, let us review the scene. It is two in the ack emma. It is a hot summer night. There is a fight in the parking lot. The cops are absent from the scene. The Darling Husband has, after kicking on some sandals, stomped out carrying a big-ass piece of metal... ...completely and magnificently forgetting that he has utterly failed to don a single stitch of clothing. He's kind of a scary-looking dude under the best of circumstances, and what the squabbling potheads and cranky drunks thought can only be imagined as they scattered in the face of a raging, frothing, long-haired, be-tatted and bepierced guy waving a sword and screaming gaelic oaths...wearing only sandals (he has tender feet) and a sense of righteous wrath. Certainly the one who'd been holding on to the pay phone in an attempt to anchor his clearly spinning planet moved faster than I would have expected he could. Just then, of course, the cops finally showed up. I heard, one floor up, a short mumbled exchange between the cops and the Darling Husband, and then he hotfooted it back up the stairs and we went back to bed. The pay phone was quiet. Very quiet. 10:28 p.m. - 2005-04-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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