Calling Uncle Crazy

I’ve been looking for a new place to live, as the house I’m renting is being sold sometime soon. Given my druthers, I’d do without the roommates. Not because I don’t like living with people. It’s just easier living alone. I can walk around naked without hearing people say, “Eww!” for instance.

So I’m looking for a cheap studio or one bedroom place. It’s not going as well as I’d like. I saw a place today that brought back memories, though, because the place was Brooklyn sketchy. Locked gate in front of the door, two doors down from the ‘Jesus Saves’ homeless mission, made me think I was back on Atlantic and Flatbush. Nice guys inside, and a cool funky layout, but I might be a little old to be hanging in a spot like that.

I thought I had a good lead this evening, and called to set up a time to check it out, and had an odd conversation with a cat I’m always gonna think of as Uncle Crazy. I called at about 7 pm, and the fella started out by asking what the hell I was doing calling him so early in the morning, then spent the rest of the call snorting back what sounded to me like heavy post-cocaine binge nasal drip. ‘Course, if that was the case, he wouldn’t have been sleeping, but that is what it sounded like. At a certain point, after feigning sanity for almost two solid minutes, Uncle Crazy suddenly burst out with, “THIS ISN’T THE PLACE TO BE BRINGING A GIRL! THIS ISN’T A PLACE THAT WILL IMPRESS THEM! If you want that, YOU’LL HAVE TO RENT A HOTEL ROOM! OKAY?” It was impressive, in a freaky way. Zero to bat-shit crazy without breaking stride.

It took a couple of minutes to calm him down. I’d just about succeeded, when he got all riled up again, this time over my calling him ‘sir’. That’s a habit I picked up at the circus; namely always act like psychos deserve your respect. There’s less of a chance of some nutbar getting physical if you sound like you’re talking to a senator. I don’t usually use that tactic on the phone, as the distance gives me a chance to be as rude as I think the person deserves, but Uncle Crazy sounded like he was gonna come right through the phone. If he had, I think I could have taken him, but his shouting was coming close to blowing out the speaker on my phone.

I considered just hanging up, but it occurred to me that Uncle Crazy might just take it into his head to *69 me. Then I’d have to wade through 187 voicemails about how rude I was, and how the Gummint was putting worms in his head to poison his vital essence. So I waded on, and actually made an appointment to see the place tomorrow. Just before I hung up, Uncle Crazy told me he’d be swearing out a warrant if I didn’t show up.

Do I need to say that there’s no way in hell I’m keeping that appointment? Hell, I’m considering changing my phone number. The only thing that could have made this five minute exchange any freakier was if he’d said that he’d meet me at the spot, and I’d know him by the fact that he’d be the 62 year old naked guy on the porch.