tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-136872142011-04-21T10:44:24.496-07:00In the middle of the night, my wife is sleeping in her bed. While she sleeps, I go out into the city to do a job that I don't get paid for. Everything I write here is true.Casebookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10716680914622835221noreply@blogger.comBlogger21100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13687214.post-1118823258646364482005-06-15T02:07:00.000-07:002005-06-15T01:15:17.273-07:00I want to make something clear here. What I do is not remotely sane. Driving in bad parts of town, dodging drunk people and prostitutes in the middle of the night is usually not considered a wise idea. I know this.<br /><br />I don't carry a gun. Someone could carjack me. Someone could shoot me. Someone could stab me. I know. The only stuff I've usually got with me is a pack of cigarettes, a digital camera and a cellphone.<br /><br />I must have read too many comic books when I was a kid, or attended one too many sunday school classes. I was always taught that if you can help people, you should. Sometimes you can't wait for people to come to you. I know that if I were in serious trouble, I wouldn't reach out to anyone, because I'm that kind of person. Maybe I'm out there trying to help people like me? Maybe I'm hoping that if I'm ever down like these folks, someone will swing by in a car and try to help me out?<br /><br />I don't know. At least I'm sure of one thing, it's not for the money. Holy crap, I'm spending a lot in gas lately.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/13687214-111882325864636448?l=whileshesleeps.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Casebookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10716680914622835221noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13687214.post-1118822397466608732005-06-15T00:59:00.000-07:002005-06-15T01:00:42.316-07:00Tonight was fairly simple, and there were only two incidents worth writing about.<br /><br />There was a young couple carrying what looked like a heavy doorframe. My trunk (as usual) was empty, so I slowed down to ask if they needed help. The guy was a big red-haired palooka, looking not entirely unlike Donal Logue. The girl was short, with a tight white T-shirt and jet-black hair.<br /><br />"Hey, do you guys need some help?"<br /><br />The girl approaches the car, throws her middle finger up in the air and screams, "Hey, FUCK YOU!"<br /><br />"Jesus Christ," I say. "I was only offering to help."<br /><br />I begin to drive through the intersection, leaving them behind.<br /><br />"What? WHAT?"<br /><br />I pull over, and I put the car in park. I take off my seatbelt and I step out of the car. The girl starts walking across the street toward the car.<br /><br />"Do you have a noose?"<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"I thought you were getting out of your car so you could noose me."<br /><br />The guy behind her is making hand gestures to me behind her. They translate to 'Don't listen to her. She's a little drunk, and when she gets drunk she gets dramatic and loud.' A fair warning, but I was alright.<br /><br />"No. It looked like you guys were carrying something heavy, and you could use a lift somewhere with it. I didn't know how far you guys had to carry it."<br /><br />The guy mutters, "Only half a block from here, but thanks."<br /><br />The girl stares at me and stops.<br /><br />"Oh. Thanks for the offer, but we're pretty much already here."<br /><br />"No problem, it's cool."<br /><br />"And sorry about the fuck you and all of that."<br /><br />"It's okay."<br /><br />I let them take their frame or whatever-it-was the half-a-block to wherever and drive away. While I couldn't help them out, I feel somewhat pleased to know that if I'm ever a short girl with a tight T-shirt and jet-black hair, I can use the word 'noose' as a verb. They seemed nice enough.<br /><br />I stopped at the store to grab something to drink.<br /><br />Driving later, there was a black woman staggering a little on the sidewalk, so I slowed down to see if I could do anything. She looked at me and approached the car.<br /><br />"Hello!"<br /><br />"Hey, how are you?"<br /><br />"I'm alright, I'm alright."<br /><br />A stick-like brown arm is thrust through the passenger window.<br /><br />"Hi, I'm Joyce."<br /><br />"Hey, Joyce. Nice to meet you. What's going on?"<br /><br />I shake her hand.<br /><br />"Not much, how are you? Can I get in? Get a ride?"<br /><br />"Where are you going?"<br /><br />"Off the street."<br /><br />This is code. Joyce is a prostitute. I look at her so she knows that I know exactly what she's talking about.<br /><br />"I can't do that, Joyce."<br /><br />"Okay, okay. Man, I had too much to drink tonight. I kept wondering why I couldn't walk straight down the street until I noticed that I was still drinking!"<br /><br />I chuckle.<br /><br />"Hey, can you spare a cigarette?"<br /><br />"Sure."<br /><br />I reach for my cigarettes, open the pack and pull out three of them for Joyce.<br /><br />"Here ya go, Joyce."<br /><br />"Thank you so much!"<br /><br />"You're welcome. Do me a favor, be careful tonight. It's really easy to get hurt out here, especially if you've been drinking."<br /><br />"Okay, I will."<br /><br />We shake hands again and we wave goodbye. I drive away. That's all for tonight. I hope Joyce is alright, and doesn't get noosed.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/13687214-111882239746660873?l=whileshesleeps.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Casebookhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10716680914622835221noreply@blogger.com0