Peewee (Piwi?) is a pretty cool guy that lives across the street from me. Actually, I'm not sure which house he lives in, or whether he lives in a house at all. What I do know is that he has pretty sweet dreads, and if it weren't for him, peoples' cars wouldn't be washed, grass wouldn't be cut, and there would be no one to creep on me when I get dropped off at home after dates. He may be a touch of crazy, and I'm not sure that I've ever seen him sober, but I appreciate his consistency in my life, and the fact that he only speaks to me because "the man of the house" (how do you like that, J?) told him to ask "the chick with the bike" about his money for cutting our grass. For some reason, those transactions always feel borderline illegal. I remind myself that I'm not directly supplementing his habit, but the stealthy way he avoids my roommates unless he's looking for me, or the way he asks about his payment always feels like I'm doing a cameo in Next Friday or something.
Anyway, last night I was heading out of the house, and I caught him mid-sermon. He wore a full length jumpsuit, with the whole front open. With a 40 oz clutched in his hand, he raised his arm triumphantly, shouting "Yea if walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I ain't fearin' nothin, damnit!" I'm glad he memorized that psalm so accurately. His audience was the old man that actually does live in that house (he sits on the front porch and drinks all day- living the good life), a six year old girl who just dropped her bike to listen, and a poodle. Not sure who's poodle it was. In retrospect, I wish I would have stuck around for the rest of the sermon.
And finally, I'll leave you with an actual text messsage I received a few nights ago. Please note that both parties are under the age of 26: "S just challenged me to do cane tricks around my apartment and I knocked over stuff. That cane is baller." Drunk chicks with walking aids. This is the way I always pictured young adulthood.
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