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What happened Friday night outside my apartment is what makes this ever-evolving circus known as the city of Los Angeles such a great place to reside.

In order to appreciate the events that occurred, I have to first give you a little bit of a backstory: I live in the northernmost centralist part of the main Los Angeles area, a little area the city recently named Franklin Village. Know where the Hollywood sign is? You’ll see that if you go out onto my street and look up North and slightly West. Franklin Village is home to several bars, restaurants, restaurant/bars, boutique shops, coffee shops, coffee/boutique shops, the Mayfair Market and the UCB Theatre. The crazy Scientology Celebrity Center is just across the street.

All of this is roughly fifty yards from my front door. You could throw a football there. Granted, you’d have to really put your arm into it and you’d probably even throw your arm out doing it and you’d probably have to catch a lucky bounce or two, but it’d still get there. Probably. I can’t explain to you how awesome it is to have a bar fifty yards away from your bed. It’s so choice. If you have the means, I highly recommend it.

The neighborhood has quite the community feel to it. I pretty much see the same people day in and day out as I’m going to and from work or walking to the Mayfair. One of those people that I saw the most was the homeless guy who always hung out at the corner of my street and the street where all the aforementioned shops are located. He was a nice man, always sitting in his chair and reading a book, minding his own business. I’d walk by him all the time on my way to the store or a bar and he’d always greet me with a smile followed by a “Good Evening” or a “How you doing?” Always cordial and quick and he’d never, ever, ask me for money. He was a lovable fixture of the neighborhood.

Other times, I’d see him walking among the shops making friendly conversations with passersby. Sometimes, he’d even be standing on the street and waving some big orange sticks directing people to open parking spaces on my street. He even waved me in once. And just like all the times I walked by him, he didn’t ask me for money.

I always considered it odd that this nice homeless man never asked me for money because, well, that’s what they usually do. I chalked it up that maybe he was just too proud to ask people for money. I figured that maybe since he had such a visibly good rapport with so many of my neighbors that they always chipped in and helped him out.

That’s the general backstory: cool, hip neighborhood & a friendly homeless guy. So, there I was at my apartment sitting at my computer with my patio door open last Friday night. My apartment, by the way, is on the first floor of the building and the patio faces the street. There’s always something going on out there. So I’m just chilling there probably watching some stupid video on Funnyordie.com or something when I hear some sort of commotion followed by an impact followed by a lot of guys yelling “Get the fuck down!” over and over. I must have heard them say that maybe five times. I would think once would be enough but then again I’m not a criminal. Well, not much of one anyways. All I knew was this guy needed to get the fuck down, this guy needed to get the fuck down, this guy needed to get the fuck down, etc.

I immediately jumped from my chair and ran to the patio to see what was going on. Sure enough, there were three or four cops (not in uniform but wearing normal clothes and POLICE jackets) piled on top of some dude like they were in Abu Ghraib prison right at the foot of the steps leading up to my building. There was also a police car right outside along with another normal looking car beside it. To give you an idea of how close this was to me, I could have underhand-tossed a whiffle ball and hit them. Not that I would do that, because these were men with guns on top of some dude. I didn’t want to join that dude.

I then heard the suspect crying out about how his right shoulder was either dislocated or maybe even broken, which was probably an appropriate thing for him to be saying given the circumstances. I then heard the officers yell “Stop chewing!” which, of course, means that he should stop chewing whatever it is he is chewing. It probably wasn’t tobacco he was chewing, either. But it may have been along those lines.

By that point, three more cops dressed in plain clothes had showed up. They helped get the suspect into the squad car and everyone began searching the entire area (under cars and in bushes) twenty yards north and twenty yards south of my apartment. I could hardly make out what the suspect looked like since he was surrounded by the cops. All I could tell was that he had long hair and a beard and that he bore a slight resemblance to the homeless man who I was raving about four paragraphs earlier. But it couldn’t have been him. No way.

The commotion more or less died down and I decided to go back to watching more stupid videos or maybe reading about Saturday’s college football lineup. Thew doorbell rang later on, which I found peculiar since by then it was 11:30 PM and nobody ever rings the bell except for delivery people and I didn’t order any delivery and who the hell shows up at your apartment at 11:30 at night? I opened the door and it was two of the cops I had seen earlier who had seen me seeing them earlier.

Cop #1 asked me a few questions about what I had witnessed. The first thing I noticed about Cop #1 was that he bore a eerily strong resemblance to actor Michael Biehn but then again, most cops seem to. In fact, it may have actually been actor Michael Biehn because let’s be honest, when was the last time you saw Michael Biehn in a movie? (I realize now that that is a completely false statement and that Michael Biehn has actually had quite a successful acting career that has lasted over thirty years)

Okay, just for the sake of this article, actor Michael Biehn was now standing at my door. Johnny Ringo from Tombstone now works in the LAPD’s Hollywood Narcotics Enforcement Detail. I told Kyle Reese from the Terminator that I had heard the commotion and went outside to check it out and by then it was pretty much all over. I then told Hicks from Aliens that I figured it was just some punk guy doing stupid punk things (those weren’t my exact words) and that was it.

I remember thinking this was all pretty pointless since I didn’t really see or hear much when Cop #2 asked me very bluntly, “Are you aware that there has been a major drug operation going in your neighborhood for the past year?” If there is a literary equivalent to a record suddenly stopping like it does in a party scene in a movie, it would go right here.

I was about to tell Cop#2 that he was a lying pig and to STFU when he laid it all down for me. Turns out, the homeless guy was not a homeless guy but was instead a crack dealer who had been dealing crack to people in and around my neighborhood. They had been investigating him for well over six months. My shock in hearing this was very similar to the shock you may have felt when you watched the Sixth Sense for the first time and realized Bruce Willis was actually dead the whole time and you had an “Oh Shit!” moment. They finally decided to bust him when he attempted to sell crack to an undercover agent right outside my apartment.

This explains a lot, really. This explains why the guy never asked me for money (crack), why he was always in a cheery mood (crack), why he had such a strong rapport with some of the people around the neighborhood (crack) and even why he would sometimes guide cars to open parking spaces (to sell crack). Yes, the cops explained to me that when the kind homeless man was waving his orange sticks around to guide cars to open spaces it was his way of saying to his regular customers, “Hey, I’ve got some crack!” I just happened to be there at the right time and in need of a space.

Boy, you think you know somebody and then you hear something like this.

My main problem with the whole thing is why he didn’t ask me if I wanted some crack. What’s wrong with me? I’m young and occasionally stupid, why wouldn’t I want some of that sweet, sweet Devils dandruff? Frankly, I’m a little insulted.

There’s a plus side to all of this, though. His sudden absence has left a void. There’s got to be dozens of people around me right now who are craving just a taste of Casper the friendly ghost. They will pay anything to get their little hands on some pebbles, some pee wee, some prime time. They will do whatever they have to do to get a hit of some scrabble, some wrecking crew, some yam. I’d be a complete f’ing moron not to take advantage of such an opportunity.

It’s not like it’s such a bad thing to sell crack. It can’t be all that bad. Crack addicts will kill their own mother to get it, so obviously there must be something good about it, right? There’s got to be a positive side in there. I’m quitting my day job tomorrow.

This entry was posted on Monday, September 10th, 2007 at 11:37 pm and is filed under Only in LA. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.