The scruffy man and the drug house

Maybe Hub-D and I are just paranoid, but we're pretty sure that one of our neighbors is selling drugs.

Our neighborhood is sweet, with tree-lined streets and a dozen kids, as I type this, playing in the streets, in sprinklers, with dogs and tire swings. It smells marvelous right now, like all of the fruit trees that have come into bloom.

But when I look out the window to take in this scene, I see an exceedingly scruffy man stride past our house on the way to the local grocery store. He makes at least one "run" each day, and folks, he smells. BAD. He used to do these runs on a 10-speed bicycle, but ever since we returned from our trip, we've noticed that he is on foot.

His "home base" (although not his home, as far as we can tell) is a house on our street that is far different from the others. About eight vehicles, none of which seem to be operational, are parked at this house. According to our neighbors, it's been raided twice by the DEA and several of the house's residents have done stints in jail as a result.

People stop by this house all of the time, for brief "visits." One mom left her sleeping child in the car while she ran in for a brief "visit." Yesterday I saw a truck ambling down the street, and I knew by the sunken appearance of one of the men's faces that they were headed for the drug house. Sure, I'm basing all of this on wild conjecture, and one issue of Newsweek I read about crystal meth, but a significant portion of people I see drifting in and out of this house have that "look" to them, like they have been sucking on a lemon for a decade.

Our other neighbors -- the league of nice, law-abiding, non-drug-dealing people -- say that they are simply relieved that the drug dealing activities of that house have "calmed down" and they are happy that the scene is not as bad as it used to be.

But here is Babycakes, sitting on the front lawn with me, waving at people in her whole-arm Mussolini-esque manner, grinning and taking in the singing birds and passing cars, squealing as our cats come sauntering by. And the damn SCRUFFY MAN.

Hub-D wants to attack him. Just attack him and get him out of our lives.

AAAH! There he goes! With a white bag from the grocery store. He walked to the store as I began writing this post, and now, he's on his return trip. What is he DOING there? Why does he not shower or shave? Where is his bicycle? And why does he have to do his business here, walking just 10 yards from where my darling child is sleeping?

I hope this is all our imagination, and the guy just simply needs food. But I don't think so. With the history of that house, and the odor of the man in question, and the frequency and eerie focus of his trips, something is going on that is NOT RIGHT.

Hub-D called the police department about it shortly after Babycakes was born, and they advised him to call the county drug task force or some such... They also said that they know the house is a problem and that they drive by it once a day to monitor its activities.

But I can tell you as a woman who has spend many pregnant hours on the sofa staring out the window that I have NEVER seen a police car ply our block. I can tell you the comings and goings of the wasps in our eaves, but I have no idea what they're talking about with this fictitous police patrol.

AAAAAAAH! There he goes AGAIN! What?? Did he forget something? He's headed back to the store, walking in that strange mechanical fashion, face forward, never looking side to side, like he's on rails. Get the hell out of our lives, scruffy man!

Babycakes is taking a nap in her nursery, curled up next to her regular-sized panda, under a pink blanket knitted for her by our friend S., and I don't want her to even SEE guys like this. Let alone smell them.

I'm going to wrap up this post before I see him come BACK from the store with another shady little bag and attack him myself.