Today I was sitting in my room studying when a knock on the door interrupted my half-assed attempt of acquiring knowledge. I answered it, and on the porch stood what I can only describe as the human form of crack-cocaine. This man looked like he had just crawled out of the New-York sewer system to restock on bath salts.
I skeptically asked him who he was, and after a moment of hesitation he says,
“I’m here to take some shit out of your garage?”
Yes, he said this in the form of a question. I didn’t know if this guy was asking me if I had anything he could take off my hands, or if he was asking me for my permission to rob me.
I close the door a little bit and say, “Huh?”
He looks confused and says,” I guess my boss wants me to take some shit out of your garage.”
So, now we are both just staring at each other, apparently equally confused. I decide that before shutting the door, I’ll give him one more chance. I ask him if he was sent by our landlord.
He responds with, “No.”
So, now I just tell him I don’t need anything taken out of the garage and start to wish him good luck on his next crack adventure when he says, “I talked to some dude who lives here, this is his number.”
Amazingly, it’s actually my roommates phone number. Completely astonished, I figure either my roommate has picked up a bad habit, or this guy is actually supposed to be here. Since my roommate is a pretty smart dude, and a work truck was actually visible in the street, I open up the garage.
The guy asks me what I need taken out and I legitimately have no clue. No one told me about this so I’m completely useless. There is a lot of crap in the garage and I just moved in a month ago so none of it’s mine.
He tells me, “I have no idea why I’m here, my boss just gave me this address. To be honest, I have three broken fingers in my neck.”
Yo, what the shit. So many questions. His boss just gave him an address with no further instructions? And he just went on over to the address and figured there must be shit in the garage? And he has broken fingers in his neck? Who put the broken fingers there? A unicorn? I’m thinking something was for sure broken above his shoulders but it wasn’t in his neck.
So, I tell him to call his “boss” (yeah, I had to tell him) and he does. The phone is on speaker and his boss seems normal. He tells Crack McGee to face the garage door from the inside and the stuff to his left is what he’s supposed to take. Seems to make sense as there is a bunch of shit piled in the corner. The guy mumbles something incomprehensible to his boss then hangs up. He then walks over to the RIGHT side of the garage, looks around and says, “I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, there’s no shit over here.”
Realizing he isn’t joking, I gently explain to him that he was on the wrong side of the garage. He says, “Nah man, he said facing the garage from the inside, to the left.”
I can’t believe this is how my day is unfolding. I’m about to teach a grown man left from right.
But, before I can do so, the man has a moment of enlightenment when he sees the pile of stuff on the other side and shouts, “Well, THIS must be what he’s talking about! My boss can be such an idiot sometimes. You’ll see what I mean when you’re old enough to get a job.”
I have no further words or feelings for this exchange. Moving on.
The next thing this guy does is fix our broken disposal. Long story short, when he pulls the disgusting broken fork tangled in hair and slime that was causing the blockage out of the pipes, he walks down the hall and into my room with it. I look up from my computer and he says, “Well, here was the problem,” and tries to hand it to me. I jump away from him in fear, telling him throw it away. He shrugs and walks off, leaving me in a variation of the fetal position up against the wall.
When he’s finally done and ready to leave, he tells me again how bad his fingers in his neck are bothering him, and then proceeds to stumble off and say, “Have a good night, man.”
It was 11:00 a.m.
Drugs are bad.