Mommy and Daddy are fighting

I've been at odds with the city recently. It seems to have lost its springtime appeal: the Bradford Pear blooms had long since fallen and the city seems nestled under a blanket of yellow pollen.

And the homeless have reemerged.

During the IDOL GIVES BACK fundraising--when each member had to find a local charity to support-- it seemed fitting that Atlanta's Ryan Seacrest chose acknowledge the homeless situation. Maybe it's the fact I live in Midtown, but it is a situation.

I was driving home from a friend's house late one night last week and I got stopped at the light on Freedom Parkway and Boulevard. Usually there is a panhandler at the light, so I didn't notice the man on the corner.

When he approached my truck and tried to get inside, however, I took notice.

He leaned against the passenger-side door and began to yell at me through the window. I refused to acknowledge him by focusing my attention on the CD player. He pulled the door handle and got angry when he realized the locks were employed. This would have encouraged me to run the red light, but I was sandwiched in the lane on all sides by other stopped vehicles. As he hollered, I flipped my visor open and began to reapply lip gloss in the mirror; I've already learned the hard way to not make eye contact when this sort of thing happens.

The homeless man got even angrier when I busied myself in the mirror, so obviously the only logical thing for him to do was to take his cane and beat against my passenger-side window with it.

And this is when I got scared.

I screwed the cap back on my lip gloss, tucked it in the center compartment, and I pulled my phone out and debated dialing 911, but knew the situation would rectify itself as soon as the light turned. I wasn't keen on hanging around the area and filing a police report, so I put the phone down and continued to primp while Crazy continued to beat against my truck with his cane.

***

Three days later and I'm on the phone with The Boy when something outside stirred me from the comforts of my bed. It was a loud and terrible noise that continued for minutes. With The Boy on the phone, I walked out on the balcony and saw a black helicopter hovering above the street feet from me, shining its intense spotlight towards the ground. It hovered, made a quick circle to turn around, and hovered again.

I recognized the black helicopter as Atlanta PD from when I dated Christopher. In the mornings while he spent hours in front of the mirror, I would stand at the 12 x 12 foot window in his Midtown apartment and watch two or three circle the area. He presumed they were looking for someone and I stood on the 14th floor and wondered what was below. The helicopter outside my apartment door was doing the same: the same short, tight circles, maneuvering hastily and with abandon. It was more dramatic than TV: it was feet from me.

I described the scene to The Boy, who was not as enthralled as I was. I'm pretty sure his exact response was, "What is wrong with you!? Get inside now!"

Oh. "Even though I live on the second floor?"

"Yes. Double bolt your back door. Make sure your windows are locked and get away from them."

"Do you hear the helicopter?"

"Yes! Now get inside!"

I did as he said and retreated back inside, making sure the back door was double-bolted. I discovered my windows were in fact unlocked and went back into the bedroom and into the spot before the commotion stirred me. As we moved on to other subjects, the helicopter continued to harass me with its menacing presence.

***

Monday I came across this article:

I'm going to answer his question with "Yes, it's like New York, only we drive." That sounds fairly reminiscent to something I once saw, only mine involved a shot gun and both of them running into an abandoned house that's actually being renovated into condos right now. Same street, about 2 miles from where he was.

The city had me down, so I did the only thing I knew that would lift my spirits. I took my dog to Piedmont Park. Under a beach umbrella outside Park Tavern stood the man I see every weekend. With him, he brings about 20 plastic bowls filled with water so the dogs don't go thirsty in the heat. As I sat down at Park Tavern's table with my book, he approached me and gave Nikita her own ketchup-colored plastic bowl that she drink from furiously.

I smiled and thanked him, forgiving the shot guns, the helicopters, and the homeless men with canes.