Weekend of Terror

I remembered the threat. As he was driving away from our house, he yelled the address. High on klonopin and mushrooms. A backpack full of more drugs. Shirt too big for him. Wielding a knife. An absolute MONSTER of sketch was driving away from our house, yelling our address. Why did I dismiss it as an idle threat? Why didn't I camp out on my lawn for a full day, complete with a double-barreled shotgun, overalls and a straw hat? I dismissed it. I went to sleep.

A conflagration of breaking glass awoke me on Friday morning. The unexpected, unnatural sound seemed to give the air an evil electricity. I crawled out of my room - making sure not to cross the line of sight of the now-broken window. My roommate later explained that I had done this all the way into the hall. It was not a conscious act at all. That was apparently my mind's basest way to deal with an attack. Not to identify the attacker, but to shimmy on the ground as if we were under siege from catapults.

"Dieter! Hey! Dieter!"
I saw my roommate stepping out of his room, and explained what had happened, even as I processed the information myself. Someone had strait-up attacked us. A cinder block had flown through my window, landing 12 feet northwest of my feet. The block had bounced clear of all my music equipment. If it had veered 1 foot to the left, my customized, irreplaceable electronics would have been bashed beyond repair. The only piece remotely damaged was a Roland MKs80. The magical 1980s synth absorbed the blow in its rugged metal case. It allowed only a 1" dent, colored a tell-tale grey from the block. If the granite slab had been thrown through the side window, above where I sleep, I would have had more problems than just a dented synthesizer.

I would have had the problem of looking like a zombie due to my crushed nose. Or the problem of not understanding math or language for the rest of my life. Or I would have been saddled with absolutely unpayable hospital bills and shattered ancilary bones.

My naked foot absorbed a splinter of glass. No bleeding, just frustration over a pain that I shouldn't have been feeling. Why did I have to suffer this annoyance? And why, when I had done nothing wrong, did I have to deal with abject terror and lingering fear? Well, I knew why. It sucked, but it made sense. I began to see the attack as a logical conclusion to the events of the night before. It had the simplicity of falling dominoes and the dynamics of fine music. That I was asleep beneath the last domino didn't distract me from understanding the reason behind the whole mess, and from appreciating its cloying beauty.

There had been a party. Sorry, "A couple friends over." I didn't begrudge the understatement when I was told. New house, new people, new shenanigans! A chance to step aside from screaming and pedal-mashing in my room all day. I could know more sounds than just my own - loud conversation, bombastic rap deadpanning, and if things took a turn for the typical, sirens with their inclement cop cars.*

People started showing up at about 10:00. Alot of people. I enjoyed instant credibility - at least 3 people said "well, it's your house," in deference to me. There's something about being a tenant at the building you're at that makes it so much easier to hang out. You're not just a dude, you are a fixture. The negative side to it being "Your house" is that it is your house.
Anyway - I talked to people in a small group, and watched the larger group become drunker and dancier. I assumed there would be a fight, as everyone got louder and started making more funny-enthic-voices jokes. But when things started dying down at midnight, I took heart. I went back to my room.

Alone now, and separate from the party, I was slightly uneased by the murmurring voices from all around me. From the backyard, from the living room, from the front porch. I just repeated to myself that my car would be safe, and everyone would leave eventually. Then the screaming started. It was a man's screaming. "DON'T YOU EVER PULL A KNIFE ON MY FRIEND!" There was a mass of people flowing to the front door, creating a human inside-outside hourglass. Based on where everyone was going, and what I had heard, I figured out what happened. I stayed out in the street for a minute to make sure this lightly armed offender left for good. He yelled at us ominously and drove off.

I've already described the suspect , but I'll go into more detail. He was white, and a somewhat gangly 5'11". He wore glasses and had blonde, short hair, I think. Big shirts, big pants. 150 pounds. Maybe 25.

There was a whir of conversation in the kitchen at that point. For a solid 20 minutes, the remaining guests (most had been driven off by the crushing realness that had occurred) boisterously rehashed every detail of how they ran this dude off into the night. I learned there had been some tension between the suspect and one of the other guests. The gangly perpetrator had pulled a knife. From there the other guests had forced him off the premises en masse.

When I asked how it was that someone like this was at our house, I was told that he was brought by a legitimate guest named Marky's girlfriend. She had attempted to clear his coming by mentioning to my roommate that she was bringing "some of her girlfriends." My roommate failed to interperet that language as meaning "my dangerous, armed, vengeful drug dealerfriends."
Disturbingly - Marky continues to defend this guy, for the sake of his girl. His claims venture far outside of the realms of sanity as he tells us the suspect is a "good guy." This was utterly baffling at first whif. But given the moral, empathic, and social bankruptcy of his preferred company, I am not surprised at the sentiment.

The next day, after the block incident, I did even more research into the knife threat. Based on different accounts I took (including one from the suspect himself. The pain of that conversation and the utter ignobility I came to know of his character need not be immortalized herein), I have an even deeper understanding about what happened. Since it is part of an ongoing investigation I should not go into too much detail. A police report was filed. One for the cinder block, one for the knife (given by one of the party attendees). I should make an adaptation of Clue based on this limitless horror. Except instead of Colonel Mustard et al, there would just be this one guy and a bunch of weapons.

As in Clue, there will be legal retrobution - breaking a potential cycle of violence and hopefully preventing further attacks on me. No threats though. Just the cold, grinding machinery of the law, set in motion against him like a creaking robot.

*is it normal that every party, show or other social gathering in my life has had this as a constant risk? I guess that is the nature of the beast when your job could be misconstrued as being paid by the police to cause noise complaint tickets. Strangely, I was the one calling the cops this time.