It was the winter of 1999-2000, I think. We lived on a really steep hill half a block down from the Missouri/ Kansas State line. The Kansas side. People kept turning down the street off of State Line road and slipping and sliding into lawns and various road-side accoutrements, including the random parked car. It was a really steep hill. So Jimmy and I brewed up some hot chocolate and set up some lawn chairs in the front lawn to watch the show, and help when needed.

There was an Iraqi guy that lived upstairs from Phil who worked as a security guard. He had a pretty wicked mustache and I have to say it because I know you're thinking it: he pretty much looked just like old Saddam Hussein when he was in his uniform. He was a scoundrelly type fellow, always trying to cheat Phil out of his share of the utilities, stealing porch light bulbs, etc. Once, he tried to chase him down and kick him. I can't remember if it worked. This fellow thought it would be pretty clever to park his car out on the street in the middle of the iciest night on the steepest hill in Kansas City, Kansas, even though he had off street parking. Sure enough some two-ton chevy pick-up truck slammed right into it. The ice was so slippery we had no trouble moving giant cars around that night like pucks on an air hockey table, but that truck was so smashed into this fellow's car that it wasn't coming unstuck. So we called the tow truck. Of course the Saddam look-alike was nowhere to be found.

The next day he showed up and told me he'd pay me twenty bucks to go to the police station and make a statement, which I did. Maybe I shouldn't have. I drove out there with him and it turned out that the KCK Police Department was located in a giant dying shopping mall. Half of the shops in it, if not more, were not retail space, but various departments of the law enforcement entity. I remember it was really sad in there, lonely.

Now Saddam Hussein himself is dead, Phil is dead, but I don't know about Phil's old neighbor. The field across the street from our old house is a parking lot; the old tree across the way, gone.

Broadcasting in hushed, sober tones from The Underground: may God be with you all.
JS