Jeff Skrenes Flees From Upper Drug-O-Topia

Photo By John Hoff

Ah, the stuff our intrepid Hawthorne Housing Director endures. And, since I help him move his furniture, I endure it with him...

Jeff used to have a pretty decent apartment in St. Paul, but he left it for an apartment in the Hawthorne nieghborhood at 2218 Lyndale Ave. N, closer to our daily struggles and, yes, victories.

Of course, the new apartment wasn't such a bad deal. Jeff got more square footage, and a much prettier residence for less money. There was only one problem: apparent drug trafficking.

Barely a month after Jeff moved--and both myself and Bryan Thao Worra helped him with the process--Jeff woke up one morning to see members of the Hennepin County Sheriff's Department raiding the small detached garage (with mysterious skylights) pictured above, here photographed from Jeff's second-story window.

I have to give myself a bit of credit, here. I sort of called it. The first time I met Jeff's neighbors, including the sloppy, bearded guy in the basement who was thrilled to get Jeff's worthless hide-a-bed, I told Jeff, "They remind me of tweakers."

"What are tweakers?" Jeff asked; dear sweet Jeff, the adopted son of a bishop who grew up in the Upper Penninsula of Michigan, collecting baseball cards and working on a farm.

"Meth users," I clarified. "They have that cranked-up, tweaked-out, meth head aura."

Jeff figured they were "chronic inebriates" and "potheads," but probably nothing worse. Until, that is to say, a month later when he woke up and thought he was in some kind of "alternate universe," with what appeared to be a SWAT team crawling all over the little garage.

Figuring he better find out what was up--and it was best to find out from the police--Jeff put on some decent clothes--but not too decent, not like a drug kingpin would wear--and approached the police who were tearing apart the garage.

The police wouldn't give Jeff much information, but advised Jeff NOT to rent at this particular residence, for his own good. That was all Jeff needed to hear. This was in early September. Jeff started looking for a new apartment, immediately. Jeff let his landlord (Jerome Toby Murschel) know that the damage deposit should be applied toward the final month's rent.

Jeff figured otherwise Jerome--perhaps desperate to pay legal bills--would just walk off with his damage deposit.

The chronic inebriates who always hung around in the yard having bonfires, as well as their charming pit bull, were bemused by the situation. Nobody would give Jeff a straight story about what the police had found during the raid, but one night one of the drunkards lamented "the tragedy" which had taken place. Just recently, one said, "Hey, it's not like we use enough pot for them to RAID US, geez!"

I told Jeff this was probably a "cover story." I was still betting on meth, not pot. Jeff said the guy wasn't bright enough to concoct a "cover story" and deliver it so realistically. I had my doubts.

A blonde woman with stringy, dirty blonde hair who often came for the late-night beers-n-bonfires by told Jeff, "I don't blame you for leaving," and the others shot her a dirty look.

Today, Jeff actually settled up with Jerome, even paying him for the single day of November 1, since moving out carried over an extra day of the first month. Jerome stayed inside his apartment and pouted like a child, refusing to come out and take the check from Jeff. So one of the chronic inebriates had to hand-deliver the check to Jerome. Jeff made it clear that if Jerome didn't want the check, Jeff wasn't going to "piss away" the money. Jerome took the check, via the third party.

So Jeff is free of the second story apartment--which, really, was quite nice despite the people who hung around downstairs--the tawny brown pit bull, the chronic inebriates and their bonfires, where they ALWAYS burned plastic bottles, an unhealthy practice.

One of the inebriates was profusely thankful for Jeff's old bike rack, since he is one of those metal scrappers who comb our neighborhood like Jawas on the planet Tatooine. I told Jeff, "The minute you're free of that place, call me. It's a great story. I've been dying to blog about it."

Jeff called me a few hours ago. So this is the story of Jeff's flight from Upper Drug-O-Topia.