Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Sunday morning coming down
Saturday night, I'm in my underwear, drinking PBR and watching "CSI: Las Vegas" reruns (could there be a better way to waste my life) when I hear some odd banging and kicking sounds coming from nearby that sound a whole lot weirder than the usual Saturday night drunken apartment complex living hijinks. I look out the window, and some strange person is standing motionless in front of the maintenance man's supply closet, which is right next door to our apartment. He is not one of the three maintenance men my landlords employ. He's tall, skinny, blonde, and vaguely indie-rock looking. He sees me and walks to the apartment complex across the alley, holds something above his head, stares at it for a few seconds, throws it over the fence, and takes off down the alley. I'm pissed off now because I assume he's broken in to our complex and I have to put my clothes back on and call the police. Ten minutes later, the police show up. I walk them outside and recreate the chain of events. The supply closet is still locked, and the mysterious object he stared at intensely and then threw over the fence turns out to be a fucking lightbulb. The police couldn't find him, tell me to lock my door, and leave. The next day, we're driving back from lunch and Captain Lightbulb is standing in the alley, shirtless, making weird gestures with his hands. We go inside. I contemplate calling the police again, but we end up just watching him for several minutes from our window, mesmerized. He looks directly into the sun, holds up his hand in a vaguely mystical gesture, and begins talking to himself. Then, a girlfriend/sister/roommate/friend pops out of the apartment across the alley and shoves him back inside. We discuss whether to call the cops again now that we know where he is, but we decide that he is either mentally ill, retarded, or under the influence of a particularly heavy dose of psychedelics and pass on further interactions with APD. Later, my wife sees him sitting in his pickup, talking to himself, and pressing on the horn once every ten seconds or so. Later still, he attempts to open our complex's supply closet yet again, but his girlfriend/sister/etc. grabs him and ushers him back inside. Turns out, he's just fascinated with the supply closet door, and he's really, really fucking high on psychedelics. He hasn't caused any hullaballoos since then. What's the point of this true story? I'll tell you the point, my friends. The point is that it's a dangerous, crazy world, and the children who are our future need to learn to just say no. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .to high prices! For real savings, shop at Costco. That's the Costco difference.