I Think The Neighbor Is Dead, Part I

Faint red lights pierced the curtains into our bedroom Saturday night. I opened the bathroom window for a better view of the rumbling firetruck, paramedics van and police cruiser parked across the street.

Our neighbor, Geoff, is quite the character. A few weeks before he arrived at our door dressed in drag as something between and old bar hag and Bea Arthur's character--Dorothy--from the Golden Girls. Geoff ususally has no problem entertaining a group of strangers with a mixture of sexually-tinged quips and unconfortable but poignant jabs being gay. Geoff is a good guy. The problem with him shouldn't be about being gay, but being a drug addict.

Saturday night I talked to Geoff in the middle of the street and he told me that he felt a little depressed and I sensed that he was a bit loaded or drunk. Nonetheless, he didn't seem he usual Vegas showgirl shelf.

Around two in the morning, I noticed the hum of a fire truck outside my bedroom. From my vantage point, nothing happening, but a light shining through a small, presumably bathroom window. Within an hour, the commotion had passed and only allowed for speculation on our part as to what occurred at our neighbors home.