We're from Australia

One night at about five in the morning something aroused me from my couch slumber. I heard faint knockings in the distance and suddenly the noise grew louder, a rapid, bang, bang, bang. I knew immediately it was the front door to the building being harassed. Uhhh, I think, lame people, stupid, damn it. I hear these people, that I’m starting to imagine faces for them, try the buzzer. I imagine them jamming their feeble fingers on to every button available, smashing with abandon, not aware that the buzzer hasn’t worked for a very long time. I smile to myself. I hope someone just comes home with a key and decides whether or not these are the kind of people that should be let into the building. Not my problem. I tell myself, I’m sleeping anyway, it’s five in the morning. My blinds are open. The lights are on in my living room. These are the problems with the not my problem plan.

Moments later I think I hear a knock on my window. I wait to see if I really did. Yup, there it is again. I reach over to put on my glasses and that is when I see a bleach-blond, dread-lock having boy’s head at my second story window. I cannot believe this person has the audacity to climb up here and pop his head in front of my window. I’m shaken. As I start to process what is happening, I hear something muffled coming through the closed and locked window, “We’re from… Australia!”, with an accent matching his declaration. He starts in, trying to explain exactly how he has gotten to this point in his life to be hanging from my windowsill. “We’re from Australia,” he repeats, as if that is what explains the entire situation. Never having been to Australia, I think, maybe this is the way they enter their homes, or maybe he just wants to make friends. “We,” he must have a friend down there, waiting to be let in, “don’t have keys and we’re staying with some people on the fifth floor, can you please let us in.” I don’t actually remember if he said “please,” but, I’d like to think that he did indeed beg for me to let him in.

At this point, I haven’t decided whether or not I am going to let him in. A few things start to run through my mind at this moment, like, I hate it when people follow me into my building without considering the fact that I hate it. If you live here, you should have your own keys. If you don’t, and you are visiting from out of town, then your host should have graciously made you a copy, nobody will know. I’m also thinking that maybe they aren’t staying here and they might be confused. It sounds to me like he’s from Australia. I shouldn’t leave them out there in my neighborhood, but it’s five in the morning and what are they doing without keys right now, what have they been doing all night? ! Why isn’t the person they’re visiting with them? The thought that finally convinces me to let them in is none of these previous thoughts. I think, what if I don’t let them in and they sit outside for a long, long time, and then they eventually do get in to the building, I’m not their favorite person. They know where I live.

“Climb down,” I tell him through the window. From the other room my boyfriend was listening to the whole exchange and asks if I’m going to let them in and I say yes. While I slip on my flip-flops I’m thinking it’s a good thing that I was, A. sleeping with clothes on and B. not having sex in the living room. “Don’t get killed,” my boyfriend yells after me as I leave the apartment. Butthead.

I couldn’t just leave these guys from Australia outside in my neighborhood. I feel responsible for them now that they‘ve asked for my help. They both have skateboards and they look fairly harmless, so I do it, I let them in. They thank me over and over again. They’re hammered. “Thank you so much. We’re visiting from Australia and we’re staying with people on the sixth floor.” They said fifth before. I start up the stairs and mind you there’s an elevator in our building, which the taller guy points out to the wall climber. I figure they’re going to use it, but instead Dreads wants to share his evening with me, and they follow me up the stairs. Apparently, I don’t like it when people follow me up the stairs after I let them in to the building at five in the morning. I say nothing. He continues, “We were riding our skateboards and this guy was yelling at us that he was going to beat us up.” “Welcome to the neighborhood,” I say. We’re at my door now, and the taller of the two wants to shake my hand, okay we’re doing this. I shake his hand. Dreads wants to talk some more, but I say, “Okay boys, have a good night. Don’t bother anyone." They continue up the stairs as I let myself into my apartment.

You know, I learned a few lessons the night the Australian boy climbed up to my window. First, I won’t be leaving the blinds open at night anymore; there’s something really invigorating about opening the windows in the morning anyway. Also, at any given time throughout the day, or night, you never know who you’ll meet, or what you’ll see, when you live in the Tenderloin.



Welcome to the neighborhood!