“(1)Do you know of any hospitals around here? In Doral? (2)I’ve called all the Hospitals in Hialeah and he’s not in any of them. (3)My son was hit by a car in Hialeah. You know my son? The one with all the tattoos? (4)He was walking home from his uncle’s house. Do you know where the KFC is? He was hit there. (5)His cousin called me to tell me. (6)You know I don’t drive. (7)I took his phone away because he was skipping school and now I can’t call him.”
I thought about many things while the tuba lady played her sad song to my partner, who was fittingly standing on a balcony during the loud serenade. I thought about yelling again. I thought about walking out there. I thought about how I would handle it if Iris would try to convince me to help this woman. But none of that would be necessary. Apparently, Iris couldn’t run back in the house fast enough. I believe her response was, “Oh. Wow. No, there are no hospitals here. Good luck with that.” And by the time she actually said, “Good luck with that,” she was already inside the apartment, locking the sliding glass door behind her.
I was really glad to see her give me the, what-the-hell-just-happened look.
What happened was, quite simply, that she was almost a victim of this woman’s bullshit. It was all a blatant lie. Probably in the hopes to get a ride somewhere. If you don’t want to believe that, well, then the son had his cousin lie to his mother so he could disappear for a few days and impregnate some more underage girls. But, someone was lying because the story was a complete fabrication and here’s why:
1. There are no hospitals in Doral. Baptist Hospital has an urgent care center and so does Miami Children’s. Urgent care centers do not accept ambulances, especially if they are transporting trauma patients. But why should she know where the local hospitals are? She’s just a mom and a caregiver for a special needs child.
2. There are two hospitals in Hialeah with somewhat decent emergency rooms. So, she called all two hospitals in Hialeah, but not the number one trauma hospital internationally known as Jackson Memorial Hospital. I mean, it’s just her son.
3. The next morning I checked the newspaper. I checked online. I checked everywhere. There was no such accident reported in Hialeah. And yes, we know your son. He’s the reason we don’t open our front door after 11:00 at night.
4. By car, it takes about 12 minutes, using the Palmetto Expressway, to get to that KFC. On foot it must take at least two hours. Can’t his uncle drop him off? Can’t he take the bus?
5. If his cousin was bright enough to call about the catastrophic accident, couldn’t that same cousin find out what hospital he was going to? Also, wouldn’t the cousin also inform his own father, who happens to be the victim’s uncle and your brother of the occurence? Can’t you call your brother? Your son was just at his house.
6. Ding, ding, ding!
7. Well, if he’s unconscious, it doesn’t matter. I can only imagine that if he was conscious he would’ve asked to borrow someone’s phone to call you. If he wanted to. But, I’m thinking he doesn’t want to talk to you – just like we don’t.
The next morning I received a phone call from the neighbor across from me. You know the one that didn’t open the door. He, of course, heard everything and was calling to make sure we knew that the story she told was total crap. I told him not to worry. He told me that he’s had it with those people. That he can’t take the screaming anymore. So, he’s decided to get out, even if it costs him to foreclose, but he has to move his family out of there.
Those poor people are right on top of the screaming. All day and all night. If I can hear it my apartment, they must hear it in high definition.
All this made me think that the guy downstairs must really regret having his “investment” property across from the Scream family. Ah, see, there is justice.
This concludes the three-part series on the neighbors that live across the guy downstairs. Now, don’t you wish you lived here?