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confronting my drug-dealing neighbor

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

Tonight after work - the final day of a long, long week that had me on a crash course on sales, of all things - I trudged downtown and picked up a roll of negatives I'd had processed. Since I was downtown, I picked up an 'Eye' magazine or a 'Now' (I could once tell the difference) and discovered that something brain-dead was playing at the Market Square cinema. It was 'S.W.A.T.', another 70's remake. It was better than I expected. I emerged to discover that a 'busker festival' was in progress.

I shuffled down the block to Front Street and caught the *most amazing* break-dancing troupe I have ever seen. The troupe was from NYC, and did a lot of stuff I'd not seen before, and really went all out. I gave them $20 (amongst a horde of people with twonies) and drifted homewards.

As I approached my building, I noticed two teens hanging around the entrance. They followed me into the building, so I held the inside (unlocked) door open and followed them to the elevators. One of them suddenly changed his mind about going upstairs. The other, though, rode up with me to the sixth floor, where he bee-lined for the unit I known he was heading for from the moment I'd seen the two of them on the street. The same unit where all the teenage boys go, day and night.

When my neighbor finally opened the door, I called him on it, but the guy had nothing to say. I let it go, and angrily turned in. I really don't know what to do.