the 941

Not to incriminate folks and say for sure that any of this actually happened, but let’s consider for a minute a hypothetical situation that would be pretty funny if it was true.

Let’s say that there was this man staying at my house for a night, vaguely connected to one of my roommates, and let’s say he’s a fugitive. A stocky, muscular guy with an easy grin on his roughly handsome face. Maybe he reminds you of the shirtless uncle that your parents tried to keep you away from. The one who chain-smoked and made dirty jokes about your mother.

Anyway, supposing he wants to buy a dime bag that night (even though he’s loaded down with pharmaceuticals), but he doesn’t have any money. So let’s say he swaggers down to the North Trail and starts offering oral sex to passing male drivers. One hundred and fifty dollars a pop, to be paid in advance, and then he books it before ever bending a knee.

I remember when I first looked into a rental in Sarasota, it was just last February, and a local landlord and rather well-known community figure who will go unnamed was courting me to move into one of his properties. He said he was building a community of young professionals and artists, a vibrant social setting in which all of his tenants would network and share ideas. Here’s another anecdote from my little household.

It’s not that I mind living in a place like this. (Except when my laptop is stolen by another houseguest.) Let’s face it, life in Sarasota can be pretty milquetoast, and I feel lucky that my home life keeps things interesting. On the night we had our jailbound guest in the house, I think there was some kind of boat parade downtown.

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“Blessed are the meth drinkers, pot sellers, illuuusion dwellers.”

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