I met Geoff through a mutual friend and coworker, John Kirby. Kirby and Geoff were friends back in the day went they both lived in the Mission District of San Francisco. Both men had good jobs, John well on his way to being a professional rock musician, and Geoff working as a manager at Zim’s, a nefarious Burger joint in San Francisco. The music scene took hold of both men in their early twenties, spiraling them into the decadent rock and roll scene, complete with substances and alcohol. John continued working odd jobs and traveling up and down the West Coast with his band, Vavoom, meeting the soon-to-be-famous band members of Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and many others. Vavoom also played with Kurt Cobain and Dave Grohl in several of the same clubs in San Francisco.

Bouncing from his right to left foot, his long hair wild, unkempt, and gnarled in big knots, he looked me in the eyes. “You know they are watching us, right?” Geoff frequently brushed or ran his fingers through his coarse hair, trying to untangle it. I thought for a while that he was trying to make dreadlocks out of it. Geoff took off his sunglasses, staring me in the eyes. In this moment he didn’t trust anyone if he couldn’t see into their eyes. That’s why my sunglasses were also off. I knew Geoff well enough to understand the implications of not looking in his eyes. He took a long drag from the smoke that, up until then, was dangling from his lips. “They watch.” He took another drag, blowing smoke in my direction. “And they speak. Through the radio,” his arms reached over his head, “and I can hear all of it. Can you?”

I blinked a few times, not sure what I could say. My expression remained stoic, recognizing someone on the verge of a psychotic break.

At eighteen, I met someone who was diagnosed with a severe mental disorder. Anita was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression. She also had a multitude of other mental disorders coupled with her manic depression, which led to me borrowing her car while she was in a manic phase. I didn’t know that. Not at eighteen. But when I didn’t come back with her car? That’s when she had a total breakdown, yelling and screaming loud enough that the neighbors called the police to get her under control. Unfortunately for me and Anita, not taking her medications led to her outburst and her hospitalization an hour later. I followed the ambulance up to the hospital, where they had her confined to a gurney. People I know who have experienced loved ones going through similar mental breakdowns talk about being four-pointed, or in some radical cases, five-pointed to the bed. Using buckled straps, the kind that can only be undone by a doctor or nurse, literally tying you down to the bed, restraints being used on both ankles and both wrists. The fifth point prevents you from moving your midsection. She struggled against the restraints, medication being administered via a syringe. She saw me out of the corner of her eye. “Hey! I see you. Where’s my car, Joeey?” Even her tone sounded, well, crazy. But her laughter at that very second? That sent shivers down my spine. I didn’t leave the hospital until she cackled like that and thrashed against her restraints – then I ran out as fast as I could, almost knocking over a nurse or two.

Watching similar behavior in my neighbor, who I’d seen in his right mind on other occasions not being under the influence of any substances, meant currently he was out of his mind. Living in the garage should’ve been a good clue, but what did I know at twenty-four? Not much more than I did at eighteen.

“Right,” I said, smiling, agreeing with him. I figured it would be safer to agree with him than to try to contradict him. “Voices on the radio. You mean the D.J.’s, right?”

“No, man.” He grabbed my shoulders, pulling me close to his face so I could smell the smoke on his breath. “Voices are different. They are sending messages to me,” he pointed to his temple with the index and middle finger of his right hand, his left holding the smoke between the opposite fingers.

“Yeah. Gotcha. So, what about the kids living in your apartment?”

“Oh, yeah, right.” He smiled, the cigarette pointing upward to his nose. “Those guys are paying me to live there, so it’s all good. They aren’t bothering you guys at all, are they?”

“No. Just wondering, that’s all,” I said, lighting my cigarette. “Who’s bus is that?” In the driveway was a school bus painted in haphazard rainbow colors. Bright blues. Deep, rich reds. A smattering of mustard yellows and some purples, or at least it looked purple after mixing with the blues and reds. There were spots of rust, reminding you of the beat-up nature of the bus. I heard a dog barking.

“That’s Tony’s bus,” Geoff laughed. “He’s gonna stay a few days. Hey, can I use the hose?” We bought the garden hose because my girlfriend wanted to plant a garden. An audacious idea, one that I would later learn was part of her manic behavior also. She bought the seeds, a watering can, and a hose. That’s as far as it went. “Zeus needs water.”

“Sure. Wait,” I squinted and rubbed my eyes. “Did you say, Zeus? What kind of dog is he?”

Stepping out of the bus with a thick rope tied around the neck of a golden-colored pit bull was a short man about five feet tall. His dark sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing his eyes, which, based on the colors of the bus, were dilated from L.S.D., mushrooms, or some other kind of hallucinogen.

“He’s a full-blooded pitbull. Cuddly as a kitten,” Tony said, kneeling down so the dog could lick his face. Not that he needed to kneel far for the dog to get in his face. “But super protective, so I’d suggest not getting too aggressive with me.”

Zeus started to growl. I thought it was me, so I left Tony and Geoff to whatever they were doing. I really didn’t want to know. They talked about working on the bus while Geoff got on the ground wrestling and roughhousing with the pit bull. I didn’t notice it, not at first, but the rope was almost an inch thick! How it was wrapped loose enough not to choke the dog, I didn’t know.

All was quiet at my neighbor’s apartment. No music. No footsteps. Not even the faint sound of a bed squeaking from young teens’ promiscuous behavior. It was odd for a weekday, especially in mid-May. A typical day started around ten or eleven, with the bass from their music thumping through our walls. We could tell the song based on the bass. Gansta’s Paradise had a different feel from Bone Thugs-N-Harmony’s 1st of Tha Month.

So where were our gansta neighbors? We’d find out soon enough.