Journal, December 14, 1993

I came home to discover a drunk passed out in Rhonda’s parking spot.

I knocked on Rhonda’s door.

“Rhonda, do you know whose body this is?”

“Maybe you should go inside. What if he’s got a gun? Don’t let him shoot you!”

She added that she heard a scuffle and locked her door. Model citizen.

“Is this a bad neighborhood?” she asked, as if the last year and a half had vanished from her brain. “The last people who lived here were fags.”

As the cops arrives, the man in Rhonda’s parking spot woke up and started banging on a door downstairs, drunkenly screaming, “Don’t let them take me!”

One of the cops told me his name is Marty, and they had arrested him dozens of times.

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