Across from the guy downstairs: Scream

Remember the three-part series I did about the guy that lives downstairs? Well, this is the three-part series on the family that lives across from that guy.*

Across from the guy downstairs lives a single mother with a special needs toddler. To no fault of the child, the toddler screams all day. All day.Long sustained screams.

The single mother also screams. All day. She screams at her twin 17-year old boys for not going to school, for not having jobs, for getting a girl pregnant, for leaving the fence open, for coming home, for not coming home, for things that I can’t understand…you get the picture.

The two boys are biologically the same age, but physically look like one is older than the other. The older looking twin is as thin as a rail. He only wears wife-beater tank tops, I suppose to show off his arms. Not that they are muscular. I believe Michelle Obama has pythons compared to his itty bitty arms. He doesn’t wear a shirt to show off all his jail house tattoos**. This boy is already a father and regularly calls his Baby Momma. I know this because he only calls her when he’s standing outside in the middle of his backyard. I believe he does this so he could scream at her at the top of his lungs, without interrupting the screaming that is already happening inside.

The first time I came face to face with this twin, I was walking toward my car and he was just coming toward the building. I did a quick full body scan and looked him square in the eyes. He quickly turned his face to spit on the ground and kept walking past me.

Gross.

Scary.

But, hey, it’s buy one gross and scary and get the second gross and scary free. Luckily, his twin is gross and scary in the circus kind of way.

The other twin boy is smaller that his brother. He looks 14 in age. And although he is always fully dressed, his clothes are insanely big on him. I understand the fashion, but this is literally pants-on-the-ground. He actually cinches his pants under his butt, around his thighs. The seam that marks where t-shirts fall on a man’s shoulder really hang below his elbows. It’s as if he’s a regular sized man in Shaq’s clothes.

His voice is still changing. I know because he…no he doesn’t scream…he sings, well, no, he raps all day. He raps loudly. He likes to rap under the staircase that leads to my apartment. I imagine because of the echo. So, his middle-of-puberty voice that sounds like a loose snare drum is amplified throughout the hallway, throughout my home.

All this happens downstairs. All day, everyday.

Until last night. When downstairs came upstairs.

I’ll tell you all about it in my next entry, “Across from the guy downstairs: Scream 2”

*Note: Although it is not necessary to read “The guy downstairs” series from back in January to understand this new series, you may find the background information helpful.

**You know, jail house tattoos: a spiderweb, a skull and crossbones, a couple of names, all scattered throughout, where ever there is space.

The guy downstairs: The full picture

This is number three in a series. I’m not sure if there will be one after this one, but I’m pretty sure there are two before. You may want to read the others (ugh, I know, what a drag)  before starting this one. Just a suggestion, though. Do as you wish.

The Lexus is always there. For days it doesn’t move and then for days it disappears. Oh, and just because the Lexus is parked outside, doesn’t mean he’s in the apartment. I doubt he gets his “real estate” clients to pick him up and drop him off. And I know the market is bad, but I’m sure he could afford to turn on a light or two. Even the TV. For a second. To watch Ellen.

Recently, he had people over. An entourage of two men, a woman and a child that arrived in two, beautifully souped-up Mercedes Benz sedans that had just been waxed and polished at the dealer. Two identical cars for three-and-a-half people. I can only imagine they each take their Hummers for road trips to Disney World while pulling their 32 foot boat.

About an hour before the entourage arrived, the guy downstairs arrived in his Lexus with a lady friend. He hadn’t been there all weekend. At least his car hadn’t. Yet, there he was, about to host a little get together in his “investment” apartment.

All night I heard a woman’s voice scream the menu of beers to them from the fridge. “Heineken, Presidente o Corona” I heard a child run around and get into messes. Everyone tried to entertain the kid, but it seemed everyone was much better at just yelling at it. “Don’t touch that!” I heard the cling sound each bottle made over and over as they were tossed in the garbage. I heard their slurred conversation screamed over a way-to-loud TV blaring fight commentary.

This went on well after midnight.

I paced furiously. Normally I wouldn’t have even considered calling the cops over a loud TV and drunken cheering, but it was the fact that I felt like I couldn’t call the cops. Now, calling the cops represented the possibility of angering potential mobsters, which may or may not lead to my apartment being vandalized or getting whacked by the washing machine by some burly man.

So I sat down, armed with an ergonomic keyboard and unlimited access to the Property Appraiser’s and County Clerk’s public records and began my descent into that dark space in the brain where your imagination is darker, cynical and conspires to make realities something bigger than they are – or are they?

My first step was to find out his name. And knowing his address, I found it in the Property Appraiser’s database. Then, I searched that same database with his Eastern European first name followed by his incredibly common Spanish last name and received two hits for two properties, both purchased in 2009. Those two apartments I mentioned in the last blog you should’ve read already (See, I told you it was important). Then, I found that both mortgage deeds were under two different mailing addresses. Neither address points to a real house, according to Google Maps. So, I looked up the addresses and found that only one was valid in the Property Appraiser’s database.

The valid address was under a husband and wife with the same last name as the guy downstairs.

Must be his parents.

So I looked them up too.

According to the Clerk of Public records, his “parents” sued a hospital for under $1,000 back in the 70’s on behalf of their son…who is NOT the guy downstairs! Upon further investigation, his “parents” took out a second mortgage in the 80’s and then they disappeared. Poof. The house listed as the guy downstairs’ mailing address is still under their name, but they are otherwise untraceable.

Weird.

It is completely impossible that those missing old fogies are his parents. His aunt and uncle, maybe. Some random old people that happen to have his same last name that he murdered and buried in the backyard with their son and had their house demolished? Now that’s a story.

But that’s just his recent mailing address. At least he didn’t live there in 2008. That’s when he was kicked out of his apartment for defaulting on his rent. It is also not the address listed in the legal papers that name him co-plaintiff, along with an X-Ray place, which state that an insurance company settled with the parties for an undisclosed amount.

I’ll come back to that later. I’m more interested in his mailing address.

Why can’t Google find this house? Will my GPS?

Expedition to the mystery mailing address to follow. Photos will be posted if I’m not warped into an episode of Lost.

P.S. I woke up this morning to: “If he can read, you’re going to get us killed!”