How to Seduce a Scene Girl: Reax Article
http://reaxmusic.com/posts/view/stepbystep/how_to_seduce_a_scene_girl-353
Information below on upcoming Benefit this weekend!
Benefit this weekend
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Finally finished, well mostly, playing catchup from my roadtrip to Bonnaroo. It took more energy than I could have ever predicted.
Upon returning home, I helped my downstairs neighbor play detective. His apartment was robbed while I was in Tennessee. He didn’t lock his deadbolt, a rookie mistake. Deadbolts are key in sketchy neighborhoods. They require much more energy to get open. If they do, someone has realized what is going on by that point.
I have never seen such a rapid downturn in an area. I live on the Westside of Fourth Street in St. Petersburg. The “wrong” side of Fourth Street.
When I moved in, kids were riding their bikes down the sidewalks. For the most part, the streets were quiet after midnight. Not anymore.
Skeletons of people walk at a slow pace late at night. Their eyes glazed over, their skin looks green. Police cruisers are part of the fabric of the streets here.
I started my job at the St. Petersburg Times six hours after I got home from Bonnaroo. It was exhilirating, exhausting and everything I thought it could be. I am an editorial assistant, small amount of office bitchwork and plenty of time to write on the clock.
Two days later, I woke up to a phone call from my neighbor in the next house.
“Have you seen Ben?” she said in reference to my other downstairs neighbor. Notorious junkie with a Mastiff named Alfia. His nefarious activities funded by the ambivalent checkbook of his family up north.
“No, ” I said.
“He looks all messed up, he can’t keep a hold of Alfia, I am worried she will get hurt. Can you call the police or landlord or something?”
Quickly, I emailed our landlord to get in touch with his emergency contact. When I finally glanced out the window, I wished I’d hadn’t. His pants and unfortunately boxers, were around his ankle as he attempted to open his front door.
Four of us share a two story home, split into apartments. It was built in 1926, and until a few years ago was known as the neighborhood crackhouse. My landlord and her husband went to great lengths to clean up the property. Now once again, it seems the history repeats itself.
My first encounter with this individual occured right after I moved into the building. Having only lived there a couple weeks, I threw a small dinner party to celebrate my cheap and quirky new digs. The gathering proceeded downstairs to the front porch, sangra, pinot grigio and miller high life was involved.
Ben Zacks, 29, moved here from Pennslyvania after his girlfriend died of a drug overdose. He was charged with attempted murder, but was not found guilty. He also had been in and out of rehab since the age of 15.
An old flame from school suggested he get a fresh start down in St. Petersburg.
That old flame was also married, with a seven year old. She found an apartment for him in my building.
I had met Ben in the alleyway when he first moved in. Alfia looks menacing, a large black Mastiff that barks anyone she doesn’t trust. She walked up to me and nuzzled my hands. Quickly, she rolled onto her back, giving me the signal she wanted a bellyrub.
This night, I was undoubtedly intoxicated. He told me and another neighbor the car his parents have bought him for the trip down here had been stolen.
“I was going to meet this girl on the southside. When I got there these big black guys pulled me out of the car and beat me up, then stole it.”
I didn’t take into account his non-chalant tone. I didn’t notice that he had no evidence of physical abuse on his body. That is except the track marks, I failed to see on his arms and hands.
Now he was in the alley of my apartment building, no pants, trying to turn a doorknob and failing miserably. His knuckles were bleeding from shooting up.
The old flame came to the rescue, Heather, she’s the type of girl you see shopping at the Super Walmart. Chunky foam flip flips. Teenage girls t-shirt, with something like “, messy hair pulled back in a colorful scrunchy. His parents give her money to disperse to him as she sees fit.
The ambulance came. Then the police. Flashing lights. We all sat on the porch and watched.
“Well who the fuck called them? Who called Heather?”
He was on probation, but the cops didn’t know that. He had been shooting up Dialintin, medication used to treat symptoms associated with Epilepsy.
According the neighborhood pill junkies, “Its a better high than Heroine.”
After the cops left, and the ambulances, he walked up to the porch acting as if nothing had happened.
He had a tattered shirt on that read “rehab is for quitters”. His money had run out recently so he started pawning. His parents cover his bills, the ones he has receipts for. So he told them he had enrolled in school to become a Phlebotomist.
A couple hours passed, when the cops returned. His probation officer found out what happened. Three squad cars arrived in minutes. He was handcuffed, screaming, slamming his body against the officers.
“I am gonna find out who told.”
When the car pulled away, the old flame began to cry.He banged his head against the glass. “He’s going to kill me for this, but its for his own good.”
His apartment was a strange assortment of items as well. Bags of clothing, none of which belonged to him. Various broken TV’s and computer monitors.
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