Tags: true crime

Self-Portrait 3

I don't do this shit on purpose, I swear.

There's a new guy moving into the apartments, 3-4 doors down the hall from me. I'm sitting here with my door wide open, catching some fresh air, while he goes back and forth moving handfuls of stuff in. White guy, thinning hair, probably in his 40's pushing 50. Every time he's come by, some pretty gangsta-sounding shit has (completely randomly) been coming out of iTunes. I caught him throwing a nervous look into the door on one trip past, so I doubt he'll be coming by to introduce himself anytime soon.


As Butters would say, "Son of a biscuit!"

Or as I'd put it, son of a butt-fucked whore.

Today marks the second time this week that I've managed to lose my keys. Only this time I've lost them out in the wilds of Tuscaloosa, leaving me firmly locked out of my apartment.

Without my phone, which I accidentally left at home today. So, yeah. I would no doubt lose my head if it weren't firmly attached to the top of my neck.

Immediately upon realizing that my keys weren't where they should be (consciously realizing it, that is. I've had an itch at the back of my brain all afternoon that something was awry, but what that something was didn't come to the fore until I patted my hip and felt nothing under my hand but my firm, supple booty), I crossed campus to the post office, which is where I'm pretty sure I left them, to see if they were there. No luck. So, I returned to work, to see if maybe there was still someone in the shop at 5:50 pm on a Friday before game day to let me in and look and see if maybe I'd left them here. Again, no luck. But suddenly, LUCK!

Whoever was the last one out the side door left it unlocked. Which normally under these circumstances (gameday weekend, 200 yards from the stadium, campus crawling with people) would be VERY bad, but today was a godsend. So now I have a base op, supplies, and communications, and can wait in air-conditioned comfort for Sam to mount a rescue mission.
Self-Portrait 3

(no subject)

Here's content, as I wait for one last job to finish up before I go home today --

Sam and I took a trip to Tuscaloosa's new Ashley Furniture store one Friday a couple weeks ago. I was simply looking for a mattress and box spring, not a full suite of furniture, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to look. Also, I'd never been in an Ashley Furniture before.

Upon entering the store, I was surprised to find out that the salespeople wait by the front door and attach themselves to you. They also refer to themselves as your "shopping assistant", or at least ours did. I hate that. It makes me feel crowded and rushed and pressured into buying something, and to me it seems slightly insulting. I've been shopping since I was four, and I'm actually pretty good at it. If I need help, I'll ask for it. Our "shopping assistant" was also obnoxiously cheerful.

"Hi, welcome to Ashley Furniture! I'm Nicole, I'll be your shopping assistant today! What are you guys looking for? *SMILE*"

"Uh, hi Nicole. Just looking for a bed." At this point I attempted to escape by putting Sam between me and her and then beelining off in the opposite direction -- curio cabinets, maybe -- but no such luck. Nicole jumped out and took the lead.

"Our bedroom sets are right over here, and we've got some more that way and that way! We can just work our way around! *SMILE*"

We reached the first bedroom mock-up, I started examining the bed, and that was when things got weird. "What kind of bed are you looking for? And I just have to tell you, I =love= your hair! It's so pretty!*SMILE* *PAUSE* I should just cut it all off! I could make a =beautiful= weave out of it!*SMILE*"


"-- uh, thanks. I'm just looking for a queen-sized bed, nothing fancy."

"Well, lets head over here! There's a queen-size all set up!*SMILE*"

We went and looked at a couple more beds and then wandered over to chairs, with every new piece of furniture we examined accompanied by Nicole's aggressively cheerful descriptions of the prices and features and what a LOVELY weave she could build out of my hair. I started obviously paying too much attention to the padded leather frame of one bed (which was actually quite nice) and I looked up and suddenly she was gone.

I panicked and checked my six. No Nicole. I glanced around desperately, trying to spot her. No luck, but I saw Sam and rushed over to him. I checked around to make sure none of her co-workers were close, and leaned in and whispered, "Where'd she go?"

He pointed towards the back of the store. "Over that way. She said she was going to check on some of her other customers. Why are you whispering?"

I looked back where he was pointing, but I still didn't see her. "Bullshit," I whispered as I ducked behind a potted plant. "She's gone to find a boxcutter so she can scalp my ass. Let's go."

"Are you serious?"

"Look, I'm leaving. You can stay if you want. But when she comes back and I'm gone, you better hope she doesn't realize she can use your hair if she kidnaps you so she can grow it out."

I walked away as comprehension dawned in his eyes, and he was right behind me when I hit the door.

Thus is the tale of my first and last time in an Ashley Furniture store.

(no subject)

I just spent the better part of the past hour standing outside on my balcony watching a dozen of Tuscaloosa's civil servants dealing with one drunk fratboy. I went outside to get a little air before I went to sleep, and a drunken fratticus --who's name is Travis, as it turns out-- stumbled up to the front of his truck, pissed, and then got in to leave. He got as far as turning his lights on before he just absolutely passed the fuck out.

About 10 minutes later a UP doing a walk-through of the parking lot noticed the truck sitting there with the lights on, and thus ensued much banging on the windows and then opening the doors to shake him and go "Hey Travis" to try and wake this guy up. Over the course of approximately 40 minutes one UP turned into five cops (each in their own squad car), five firefighters (in a fire engine), and two paramedics (in an ambulance).

They loaded Travis into the bus about a 20 mins ago. It's 80 degrees out, but I could see that his feet were covered up as they pushed the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. They drove off without running the lights or sirens, and then the fire engine left, and now the cops are all milling around Travis' truck like they're waiting for someone. I think it's entirely possible that Travis is dead.
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