I.

Soon as i entered someone hit me up.

“You’re a writer?” A sickly Korean guy asked, “What do you write?”
I shot a look at Big Dogg standing off to the side holding a bottle of beer.
“I told him you were a writer, doggy.” He said, beaming.
Bigg Dogg once told me he takes pride in knowing a writer.
When he told me that, i told him to never tell people i was a writer
as people will sometimes act funny towards me after they hear that,
as this person was doing.

On this occasion however Bigg Dogg was drunk and on a variety of pain pills,
so he forgot.

I found myself engaged
in a strange battle of the mind.

I was reticent
but
he was combative;
it felt like he had a desire to debunk me
and claim me as non-writer;
so i stepped up
and said things
to stupify him.
I was drunk
so i don’t remember
all the things said,
because they didn’t matter;
I do remember this part however:

“Do you write the title first or last?” He asked.
“Both.” I said. “I’ve written stories based off titles before.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Write a story based off a title.”
“I can do whatever I want. I’m not writing in the 18th century.”
“Let me hear a title of something you wrote.”
I gave him the longest one i could think of, to throw him off.
“Scientist Seeks Solipsist for Quantum Reality Experiment.”
“It must not be any good because the title’s so long.”
“Here’s another title for you, Fuck You.”
He looked scared, like i was going to lunge at him.
But i continued.
“See, i agree, there’s a beauty in simplifying what you want to say into a couple words.
But there’s also beauty in exposition.
Whatever title compliments the story as a whole is what you need.
I think a real writer understands you have no limitations whatsoever
when it comes to anything,
titles, spelling, punctuation, content, whatever.
You use the elements of style necessary
to shape your piece into what it’s supposed to be,
not what society or
academia,
or you,
fucking think it should be.
I’m not a journalist.
I don’t look at writing the same as everyone else
so I don’t expect everyone to know where i’m coming from.”
“You’re right… I tried to write but I couldn’t.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t any good.”
“It’s not easy.” I said, and drank some whiskey.
“No it’s not. I respect you. I’d really like to read your work sometime.”
“Yeah, maybe.”

II.

The next day,
Big Dogg,
whose apartment we were partying at that night,
said to me,
“Dang B, thank you for not knocking that fool out.”
“I have too much compassion to do that.”
“I thought it was going to be drama for a minute.”
“He’s just a hater… Beside’s, i’m twice his size, i’m not a bully… I pick on people my own size.”
I pushed Big Dogg, he’s got about a hundred pounds on me.
“What’s up foo?” He said.
We shadow boxed for a second.
“I don’t know about that fool…”
“Why? What’s crackin?” I asked.
“You know my neighbor Christine?”
“Yeah?”
“Well she said that fool was outside her apartment around midnight last night
with his shirt off, holding lit candles, telling her he needed her.
She’s totally freaked out by him.”
“She’s a Satanist right?”
“Yeah.”
I laugh.
“Wow… When you’re freaking out a devil worshipper you know you’re a fucking weirdo.”
“Yeah, no shit bro!” He laughs. “You know, i’m a neighborly person, so i invited him over that night, but i’m cool on that fool.”

Epilogue

Over the next few days
relations with the neighbor downstairs went further south.
He could tell he wasn’t liked,
and when his truck
that was illegally parked out front
got towed,
he assumed Big Dogg had called the police on him
and he stormed upstairs
and started trying to kick Big Dogg’s door down,
“Why you have my truck towed mother fucker bitch?!” He repeated as he kicked.

Big Dogg,
not being one to shy away from an oppurtunity to shoot someone,
quickly grabbed his shotgun and
SHACK SHACKed
one into the chamber
right next to the door
so his unstable neighbor could hear it.

“What you got a gun?!” The angry Korean implored.
Big Dogg said nothing.
“Well fuck you, I got guns! I got guns! I’ll fucking kill you!”

And Big Dogg,
also not being one to involve the police in any of his affairs,
called his landlord immediately,
“The new guy downstairs just threatened to kill me. I’m moving out.”
“No no no. Don’t do that. I’ll take care of it.” She assured.

And by the end of the week
the crazy new neighbor was gone.

It’s the night before my birthday
right now
and i’m going to be 29.

Had a dinner of
bbq pulled chicken on a pretzel bun
with a side of bleu cheese grits
and a homebrew red ale
with my friends
at Beachwood BBQ
on main street in Seal Beach,
and Locke paid for mine when I tried to pay.

When we went outside
I bid my friends adieu
but before
we could depart
a little old white man
bum appeared
with scruffy grey and white greasy beard
and swollen cheeks from ripple
and beedy eyes
and a baseball hat.

“Who’s birthday is it? Is it your birthday?” He asked Tom.
“No, it’s not my birthday.”
“It’s my birthday.” I said.

And he turned to me with the biggest smile
and stuck out his dark leathery hand
and said, “It’s my birthday too! I’m 69 years young!”
“Hey man, I’m about to be 29 years young bro.”
And he wouldn’t let go of my hand,
I was giving him a man to man real handshake,
the kind of handshake people in positions of power
give to one another while camera’s take their picture
to be published on the front of newspapers (or newswebsites).
It was that kind of handshake.

And then I tried to let go and he said,
“Look, I caught a fish!”
And he pulled my hand towards him shaking it
and let go, and I laughed,
and he patted me on the shoulder,
and I patted him back
“Alright, take it easy man.”
“Happy birthday!” He said.
“You too.” Even though he was probably lying about his birthday;
and gave him a peace sign
as I turned and saw my friends inching away from
me and the bum.
I gave them peace signs too and they bid their adieus
and the bum
said
emphatically,
“God bless you!”
And I said, “You too man, we fucking need it.”