I Don't Bite

Last night I stood in my tiny galley kitchen in my quaint Saint Paul apartment mixing ingredients to a batch of Amish friendship bread that I received from… who else but a friend. I was chatting away on my cell phone and headset (as I normally do) with my friend Bridget. I was really distracted, but Bridget was extremely patient with the long pauses that kept creeping into our conversation. To be honest with you, I’m not very talented at talking and baking at the same time. Okay, correction… To be totally honest with you, I’m not very talented at baking PERIOD and it is utterly impossible for me to talk on the phone and do ANYTHING else at the same time. (The truth comes out!)

As Bridget and I attempted to converse while I spilled flour all over the counter, I heard a strange muted noise… (Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz) I thought to myself, is it the fan on the power source of my computer going out again? I walked over to the PC and put my ear up to it… nothing. But, now the buzzing was getting louder. Was it my ceiling fan? (I knew that it wasn’t bolted securely to the ceiling, because it had already shook the globe loose from the fixture two months ago.) I stood underneath the fan and listened… nothing. But, still the buzzing persisted.

Then the buzzing became intermittent and was loud enough that I could recognize the sound. Bzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzz! Someone was standing outside the front of my building, buzzing all of the apartments!

I was still on the phone, when I threw my shoes on… “Bridget, some idiot is buzzing all of the apartments. I’m going to go downstairs to see what the problem is.”

When I got to the front entrance of my brownstone building, there was a man standing outside the door, shaking it, and trying to get in. I stood about six feet inside of the door. Before I had a chance to say anything to the man, he yelled from the other side, “Let me in!”

He was a larger man in his fifties, with a tight white wife beater t-shirt accentuating his large pregnant beer belly and his well formed breasts. (His breasts were bigger than mine… which isn’t saying much… But he had to be expecting twins.) He was clean shaven with long white hair, but was completely bald on top. By my estimates he was a Grade A, First Class Weirdo. I looked at him and yelled back, “Stop buzzing the buzzers!”

He yelled back, “Let me in!” (Dealing with weirdos is one of the drawbacks to living on the bus line.)

I yelled louder, “You don’t live here! I’m not letting you in!” He looked at me (with a glazed over expression) and buzzed the buzzers some more.

By this time my neighbor Shayna opened her door and some dude I had never seen before emerged from the basement studio apartment (where it’s rumored they deal pot). I looked at both of them and said, “Do either of you know this guy?”

They looked at me like I was crazy… of course they didn’t.

He was still buzzing when I yelled, “What’s wrong with you? We’re not letting you in. Go away!”

Then things got weird. He put one hand on his hip and his spare palm on the glass door and (if I’m not mistaken, I thought I heard a southern drawl) he said, “I don’t bite.”

I looked at Shayna and she shot me a look back. We both understood, yeah, this guy is nuts. I looked back at him and he repeated, “I don’t bite. I don’t bite.” His hand was still on his hip and his palm still on the glass. (Weird!)

I yelled at him, “Get the hell out of here, we’re calling the police!” He just kept staring at us and repeated, “I don’t bite. I don’t bite.”

It was at this point that I realized I was still on the phone with Bridget. “Oh my God! Bridget, are you hearing all this? This guy is crazy. I’ve got to let you go. I’m calling the police.” I didn’t give her time to answer… I hung up and tried dialing 911 (which is actually rather difficult on a cell phone.)

It didn’t matter. While I fumbled with my cell phone and the weirdo outside kept repeating, “I don’t bite. I don’t bite.” Shayna had successfully called 911 and asked them to send by a squad car. The dude in the basement studio (that I had never seen before), disappeared back into his smokey den. The man outside was still repeating, “I don’t bite. I don’t bite.” (He had probably said it 15 times, by the time I walked away.)

I finally turned around to go back upstairs to my apartment, but not before Shayna and I chatted for a few minutes in the hallway. I had never really talked to her before… just a wave here and there while coming in and out of the building. She’s a sign language interpreter. (How cool is that!)

It’s funny how all it takes is a weirdo saying, “I don’t bite. I don’t bite.” for neighbors to come together! Maybe I’ll pass along a batch of the Amish friendship bread to her. Yeah, that’s a nice thought!