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.