Me and the Ringleader

There are sketchy people (drug dealers, prostitutes, theives, run-of-the-mill street urchins) who hang out on the corner of my street day and night. They're the same group, mostly, with a few additions and subtractions as people go in and out of jail. But there is one omnipresent character, and he is the Ringleader. Think football player sized, probably 30ish, constantly clad in sportswear and a skully. He and I were OK with each other up until recently. He'd make some normal comment, ("Hello." "How you doin?" "I like your hair, that's pretty sharp.") and I would make some similar noises back to him. We were fine. We were neighbors.

Then (this was probably two weeks ago) came the showdown. And now we can never be friends.

It was one of those summer days when the pheremones are in the air and all the guys decide that they're going to shout at girls on the street. I had just walked up to the grocery store and been verbally assaulted four or five times (once from some vaguely threatening guys who drove their car slow alongside me for a block or so). Now I was coming back, hands full of grocery bags, hot, tired, and sick of being bothered. I turned onto my street and, as always, the Ringleader was there, overseeing a dice game. I walked onto the grass so as not to disturb the game, and as I came around the other side, I heard very clearly from behind me, the Ringleader's voice asserting, "Baby, you got a hot ass."

(I'll be honest, I don't remember the exact dialogue here, but it's close enough for you to get the picture.)

I'd had enough. I turned around, stared him straight in his (fairly ugly) face, and asked him, "Why can't you just be nice?"

"I am bein nice," he said. "You're hot. I'm just saying you're hot."

"You're not being nice. You're being rude." And with that, I got my keys out, went into my building, and forever left behind the notion that I could be civil with these hooligan neighbors of mine.

Goddamn Ringleader. You and me? We're through.