her name was lola ...

i do not like my next door neighbors, as i've said before. it's not just the meth-mouth, or the way the ringleader of the house's little cult sometimes gets hopped up and mows the whole block -- including a grass path from my door to his for the mailman. it's more like the way they are always just sitting around on the roof, seemingly waiting to heckle me as i walk to my car. it probably has more to do with their credo involving firecrackers and other illegal displays of mobile fire: everyday is chinese new year.

beer cans, pit bulls, lawn chairs and one underage girlfriend who mocks me, from the roof.
i will not feel self conscious when i'm mocked by a pregnant 17 year old in a trailblazers' jersey. at least i'll try not to.

last night i was in my living room and i heard a sound like water running. this is a sound that i, either rightfully or wrongfully, have come to associate with them staining my roof with their misdirected, toxified urine. there is not a bathroom on their makeshift roof porch. they drink a lot of busch lite. i just assume.

but then i heard sirens stopping on my street.
and when i stepped out onto the porch, a house on my street was in flames. a few doors down and i had front-row seats.
it was over by the time i started taking photos.

a police officer asked me if i had a lawn chair. i thought of meth-mouth's roof, the whole ghetto-cabana. her name was lola ...

i said no. but told her i'd find something for the old woman, whose house was recently in flames. [she wanted to have a seat] i came back with a rod iron chair from my kitchen table setup: a patio bistro table and chairs.

i left before the fire trucks.
there didn't seem to be much damage and i didn't see any ambulances.
i wonder what happened to my chair.