Searching For Colin C

Last week two policemen came to our apartment while only my roommate Becca was home and asked for Colin. Becca is a genius and went down to the gate to ask to see their badges and upon first glance said, a Colin doesn't live here. There was recognition in your voice, ma'am, said one--taking everyone's fear of policemen housecalls to a whole new level; 'recognition in your voice, ma'am' is enough cause for concern. Becca's boyfriend's name is Colin, but no matter because he still doesn't live here. We're not looking for your boyfriend, said the two young cops, who were instead looking for Colin Carlson or Campbell or Charleston, or whichever last name comes after Colin on all the mail we receive to this day, five months after move in. Mail about taxes (in season) and from the DMV and Safeway ads, but also mail from bail bonds services and the Superior Court of San Francisco and probably one from Satan coming to collect what everyone else seems to want. Long before the police showed up we have asked ourselves more than once, Where is Colin? In fact, we ask ourselves this a lot. Being the smart young ladies that we are, we've seemed to put a lot of it together: the syringe in the chandelier when we moved in, the 3am rings on our doorbell asking for "Ho-ta," or a "J," en español, all the new kitchen appliances, showers and toilets: dear Colin was a drug dealer, and probably a pretty good one. Policemen don't show up at your door five months after the fact if you're a lightweight, especially not one as innocuously monikered as Colin C---, whatever the second C might be. So, we ask ourselves, Where is Colin? Could he be retiring with his large sum of ill-begotten funds on a beach, with a clichéd margarita and an umbrella and a lady? Could he be camped on a couch of a friend who's either too naïve or too soft-hearted to know better? Could he be in jail in another city, another state for another crime still with its statute of limitations? Yes, yes and yes. With Colin gone and nothing but his pulsing human and paper trail, he can be all those places at once. Colin is our ancestor at 865 Capp--he's our living history. Colin used to walk around our apartment in similar patterns to us: kitchen, living room, bathroom, kitchen--on a drug fix, selling dime bags and 8 balls, tripping on nomads. Colin was a rockstar, a legend, enough that some guy, two sheets to the wind knew exactly where to find this place that 3am night, and I, in my broken spanish had to tell him, No, Not here, No sleeping, Not tonight. I don't know exactly how and when this seemingly endless saga of Colin will end, but I think we'll all be a little ironically (and not actually) sad when it's over. When we stop getting his sketchy and tragic mail, and when the cops stop caring. But, till then, Where are you Colin? You're everyone's favorite lost drug dealer, and you take up a lot of room for a guy who's not here.