I had another run-in with "Harry" from upstairs recently.

It was mildly upsetting, but this story has a good ending; like grape Blo-Pops or "Patch Adams" you'll be glad when it reached it's end.

Parking is a challenge here in Weho. We have to park on the street, so on Sundays when the flea-market at the high school is going, parking downright sucks. In addition to all the Pride Parades going on here every five minutes, all these chumps are parking in our spots to boot!

Anyway, the building next door is undergoing renovation, so no one lives in it right now. A plane crashed into it a while back, so now it's full of crackheads and homeless people happily lifting their crack-pipes to the sky in honor.

"Harry" has executive priviliges here at 607 (he survived the crash, so he bettah!) and he's got choice parking at the building next door.

Right next to the landlords ride is Harry's ride.

One particular Sunday I came home and lo and behold no dang parking. Nothing, nowhere anywhere. Except one spot.

Harry's car was gone, so I figured I could park in his spot for the twenty minute interlude I was about to have with my apartment. Twenty minutes, tops and then I was going to be on my way. Simple, right?

Noooo dirt.

Five minutes later there's a knock at my door. It wasn't Janet, Chrissy or Mr. Ferley. It was him...

... and he wasn't happy!

"Whats up Harry?"

He smiled at me with this weird smile. I only asked that question cuz I wanted him to state what I already knew. His "parking spot" is one of those unsaid things. I mean, anyone can park there, it just so happens that he parks there all the time.

I needed to hear him say it.

"Well," he started, "I WAS doing okay..."

"What's the matter? What happened?"

"You're parked in my spot!"

Now, when he said "You parked in my spot" it was said in a half-hearted way. Sure, there must've been some anger or frustration towards me when marched to and knocked on my door, but it sounded like it dissipated halfway through that phrase. He lost it, which kinda' bummed me out. Instead of having an angry, nostril flaring unemployed bit-actor getting up in my grill at the door I had a chuckling, apologetic bit-actor getting up in my grill at the door.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "I'll go out and move right now."

"Well, I'm parked in a good spot on the street - you can have it!" he said.

Turns out he was parked in probably the best spot to be parked in as far as street parking goes here. How he he got it that day, I have no idea, cuz it was mad-busy on Spaulding that day.

I had errands to go on, so I couldn't take his spot right then, it'd be a waste.

"I'll save it for ya!" he said. "Just call me when ya' get back!"

The Man/Monster relationship I pined for between me and Harry had suddenly begun and I wasn't prepared for it. Not one bit. I had no intention of calling him.

"Okay," I croaked. "I'll do that."

Got most of my errands done save for one when all of the sudden my phone rings. An unknown 323 number shows up on it. I answer.

"Hello?"

"Paul? It's me, Harry!"

Cue the theme from "Psycho".

"When are you coming back? Ten, fifteen minutes?"

"Uuuuuh... aaaaah... uh...."

"Just call me when ya get back! I'll be waiting!"

How he got my number I have no idea. I don't want to know. I repeat - I don't want to know.

Like a Jonestown follower I went ahead and dialed his number once I appraoched my building.

"I'll be right out!" he yelled. Sure enough, he came bouncing downstairs in a t-shirt, short shorties and flip-flops. We swapped spots, easy-peezy Japaneezy.

Then came the conversation. I had a billion questions to ask him, but more than anything I wanted him to explain to me how he survived the plane crash.

"I got out of the building, thats how!" he said. Turns out he had no idea a plane had hit his building until he got of out it. Until he reached the street outside he thought the building had been hit by a car. The building was on fire! How the hell could a car do that?

"I'm thinking about moving back in there once it opens back up. What about you?" he asked.

"Well, I'd have to check it out," I said. "Although I do subscribe to the Garp theory about living spaces."

"The Garp theory?" he asked.

I nodded, too tired to explain. This guy wasn't living up to my expectations - I was already bored with him. For somone who drunkenly yells out the window almost every other night and wakes me up with weird gurgling sounds or stomping about, I was expecting more. Alot more...

I brushed past him and went back to my apartment. As I headed down the hall I heard him say one more thing.

"See ya, buddy! Have a nice Sunday!"

copyright,  © 2007 Paul Silva 

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