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haiku
June 2009 
Landlord on the lam.
Posted on May 22nd, 2007
by 
Professor
Professor
LANDLORD -- ON THE LAM
(Only the names have been changed.)
When the police left, Moose said that was the third time they'd been there that night. Between times he'd gone out for beer and cigarettes... to keep himself going... or something. They'd never take him in sober. They wouldn't have to if he'd sober up. Anyway, he's not going back in, he said, he'd get two to eight for sure this time.
Joseppi and I tried to have a talk with Moose. It's pointless to reason with a drunk except that you feel as though you've at least tried to do and say the right things. Nevertheless, Moose really only wanted to hear himself blather.
He wants to go to Belize. I asked if he spoke Spanish. Nada. He said he'd learn. When would he ever learn? He bragged he could hide out in Texas or in New York City, maybe forever. He says he could just disappear. Ffffffft. Gone. He said he's got time to pull it off, five or six months before this thing goes to trial.
I explained to him that he doesn't have near enough sense and even less savy to keep from getting arrested for the rest of his life (duh). He'd be better off lying low locally, minding his own business and getting his affairs in order because it seems likely he's going to go to jail. He could use the penitentiary time to sober up and even for penetence. There's a thought. Here's looking at two to eight, kid.
Joseppi tried to convince Moose to check into some kind of hospital treatment program soon, before he is arrested again. Detox not retox. Show the courts that he's trying to get help--that he's rehabilitating himself. Yup. It could make a difference in the impending sentencing. Come on. Put the beer down. He did but one gulp at a time.
I left around two. Joseppi drove Moose elsewhere to hide out: a derelict, plumbing-stripped house now occupied by his best friend's brother. (His best friend was unavailable due to serving a six month jail sentence). They were almost there when a plain-clothesman in a plain-wrapped car pulled them over to the side of the road.
Moose bolted from Joseppi's truck, thrashed into the woods and was swallowed by the darkness. He pulled a muscle and it hurt. He said he felt it tear and snap that he could feel something slide down inside his calf muscle. No yelling allowed. He kept going, breathing hard, sweating bullets. He thought he knew where he was but got lost. He climbed some fences and came out on a road, figured out where he was, climbed back over the fences and before dawn Moose, limping painfully, made it into the safe house.
He'd crash there all right.
c.2007 H.M.J.
(Only the names have been changed.)
When the police left, Moose said that was the third time they'd been there that night. Between times he'd gone out for beer and cigarettes... to keep himself going... or something. They'd never take him in sober. They wouldn't have to if he'd sober up. Anyway, he's not going back in, he said, he'd get two to eight for sure this time.
Joseppi and I tried to have a talk with Moose. It's pointless to reason with a drunk except that you feel as though you've at least tried to do and say the right things. Nevertheless, Moose really only wanted to hear himself blather.
He wants to go to Belize. I asked if he spoke Spanish. Nada. He said he'd learn. When would he ever learn? He bragged he could hide out in Texas or in New York City, maybe forever. He says he could just disappear. Ffffffft. Gone. He said he's got time to pull it off, five or six months before this thing goes to trial.
I explained to him that he doesn't have near enough sense and even less savy to keep from getting arrested for the rest of his life (duh). He'd be better off lying low locally, minding his own business and getting his affairs in order because it seems likely he's going to go to jail. He could use the penitentiary time to sober up and even for penetence. There's a thought. Here's looking at two to eight, kid.
Joseppi tried to convince Moose to check into some kind of hospital treatment program soon, before he is arrested again. Detox not retox. Show the courts that he's trying to get help--that he's rehabilitating himself. Yup. It could make a difference in the impending sentencing. Come on. Put the beer down. He did but one gulp at a time.
I left around two. Joseppi drove Moose elsewhere to hide out: a derelict, plumbing-stripped house now occupied by his best friend's brother. (His best friend was unavailable due to serving a six month jail sentence). They were almost there when a plain-clothesman in a plain-wrapped car pulled them over to the side of the road.
Moose bolted from Joseppi's truck, thrashed into the woods and was swallowed by the darkness. He pulled a muscle and it hurt. He said he felt it tear and snap that he could feel something slide down inside his calf muscle. No yelling allowed. He kept going, breathing hard, sweating bullets. He thought he knew where he was but got lost. He climbed some fences and came out on a road, figured out where he was, climbed back over the fences and before dawn Moose, limping painfully, made it into the safe house.
He'd crash there all right.
c.2007 H.M.J.
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