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From: Paula Hopper
Date: Thu 01 Oct 1998 - 00:02:50 IST
It had been such a pleasant evening. Music was playing softly, a
warm glow from the candles lit the room as I sat at my desk and worked
on a story that had been buzzing around my head. Emily Dickinson would
have been proud of me. The cat and I were enjoying life in our new
apartment. I sipped my orange juice out of a crystal glass and felt
peace enter my heart.
Little did I know that in a few hours, I would be awakened by the
sound of breaking glass. At first I thought Agnus (my cat) was pissed
at me for something and had knocked something over in protest. I looked
down at the foot of my bed and there lay Agnus. I laid there a few
moments and then heard footsteps in the apartment above me. The girl
that lived in that apartment was in the process of moving out and I knew
she was gone. Oh fuck, I thought. I laid there a moment more trying to
think of what to do. I got dressed. Maybe this is a female reaction to
an intruder, but I felt too vulnerable to do anything else until I was
dressed in something other than my Victoria Secrets nightie. I creped
out to the phone in the livingroom and called the cops. They arrived in
short order and nabbed the guy as he was stuffing his pockets full of my
neighbor's panties. I shit you not, the guy had climbed up the roof of
the apartment behind me and broke into the apartment above mine to steal
underwear.
As the car pulled out with the pantie pilferer safely in tow, I saw
that some of my other neighbors had come out to see what was going on.
I walked over to them to let them know what had happen and to see if
they had heard anything.
"Well, I just don't understand this. Why did they take Dennis away,"
said the heavy-set girl that lives across the street. The older couple
that live next to her were standing there looking bewildered.
"You know this person?" I asked.
"That's my husband," said the girl.
"Yes, that's our son-in-law," said the couple with her.
Oh fuck, I thought again. I high-tailed it back across the street
before I got caught in some small-town-minded discussion about calling
the cops on Dennis, the undergarment bandit. I was new to the
neighborhood. Would these people somehow hold me responsible for this
incident? Logic would dictate no, but we're talking about a small town
in Southern Indiana. Logic doesn't often come into play in these here
parts. My mind was racing with the possible repercussions of this
evening.
The police waited for the guy with the camera to show up to take
pictures of THE CRIME SCENE. I had always thought of it as the apartment
upstairs, but now it was THE CRIME SCENE. The little dude showed up and
they all disappeared up the stairs to take pictures of the EVIDENCE, and
then everyone left. I stood in the kitchen and thought about the bottle
of Tullamore Dew Irish Whiskey that was sitting in the cabinet. I only
pondered it for a moment because I knew that if I took a swig I would
probably just puke it back up. It's too good a whiskey to waste, so I
went in the livingroom and put the movie "Harvey" in the VCR to help
calm me down. Agnus crawled out from under the bed and laid by my feet
as I watched Jimmy Stewart and his Pooka enchant a black and white
world. The peace that had entered my heart earlier was now gone.
Where is a Bandito when you need one?
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