The Student Ghetto Chronicles Part Two
Last night my sleep was interrupted by Roscoe turning on the lights and swearing about “the damn students”.
This kind of thing happens sometimes, generally after a young, drunken soul leaves a hamburger with the ketchup covered patty face down on Roscoe’s car. For the record this has never once happened to my truck, likely because I bring our rabble rousing neighbours bagel flavoured cake. Don’t ask, I was teased mercilessly for that abomination at home, but the frat boys didn’t complain.
Personally I’ll take the odd McDonaldsified vehicle over moving to a less colourful area where people don’t shout “I effing love boooooooooooobs” at three am. Only they don’t say effing. It adds spice to my day. Or in that case my very early morning. There’s a certain amount of youthful joie de vie which is lost when you don’t wake up on March 17th with teenagers traipsing through your backyard en route to the frat party next door. “Oh sorry ma’am. Cool Snoopy jammies. Do you want to come with us?”
Anyway, so Roscoe has a completely different story but I’m going to tell my version.
So at about eleven o’clock last night Roscoe was studying in a very grouchy manner. The gods of humour and calamity saw this and decided that his evening needed less colostomy bag protocol and more fun. Hence Dude appears underneath the office window. And begins to reenact Hamlet for the two young ladies with him.
Only he doesn’t remember the plot to Hamlet. Or any of the characters, or what Shakespearean prose sounds like. So he just starts fighting a battle to the death. With himself.
Roscoe, who was focused on colostomy bag incisions, is able to ignore this production. Sort of.
However a moment later Dude realizes that our landlord has left the sprinkler and the hose out. Right next to the tap. Dude senses that his production is lacking a certain something – a storm. Being the Good Samaritan that he is, Dude also noticed that our grass was looking thirsty. This environmentally savvy young thespian knew that the best time to water your lawn is at night. Three birds with one very convenient stone. On goes the hose.
Regretfully Dude had underestimated the water pressure. It was at this point in the evening when swear words, groans and water started to come in through the open office window.
Roscoe, not realizing that Dude was just trying to provide him with some entertainment while watering our lawn, rushed outside and started bellowing at the young do-gooder, who ran, leaving the hose on full blast and soaking Roscoe to the skin.
This is when my husband burst into our bedroom and started going on about that he knows how much I enjoy living in the student ghetto but really we’re just surrounded by awful people.
All I saw was the jerk who woke me up in the middle of the night asking for a towel when there was one on his hook in the bathroom.
Roscoe tells the story differently. Tragically this is my blog, so I’m going to talk about wannabe actors who like to conserve water and help their neighbours. Tough luck dear husband, perhaps wait until morning next time to tell me about our midnight visitors?