earlgreytea68 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earlgreytea68) wrote2013-01-26 11:53 am
earlgreytea68) wrote2013-01-26 11:53 am
Entry tags:
A Story About How None of the Men Who Knock on My Door Are Ever Sexy British Men
When Hurricane Isaac was in the Gulf, I had a bit of a meltdown. You see, the last time I lived in New Orleans and there was a hurricane in the Gulf predicted to make a direct hit, the hurricane was called Katrina and I had to flee in the middle of the night and I didn't see any of my belongings for the next two months. So you might understand why Isaac triggered a bit of PTSD in me and compelled me to run around like a chicken with my head cut off.
It compelled no such panic in the New Orleanians all around me. You'd think they'd never had any kind of hurricane-related disaster at all. They seemed to think I was insane to have made plans to leave the city before Isaac hit. They seemed to think I was overreacting. Maybe this is how you can survive here: by having a very selective memory. All I know is that I spent a lot of time figuring out which of my belongings were most precious to me and needed to fly north with me while complaining that I'd rather have a snowstorm any day. (Of course, I mean a snowstorm in New England, where all it means is that you spend a day snuggled under a warm, fuzzy blanket. I was living in Boston the day Boston got the most snow it's ever gotten in a 24-hour period. I watched soap operas all day, and the next morning I walked through shoveled-out paths to Tealuxe. ::shrug;:)
ANYWAY, why am I saying any of this? Isaac happened way back in September! I am saying it because that was the first time a crazy person knocked on my door.
I peered through the peephole before I opened it, and it was a uniformed policeman. Now it crossed my mind that this could have been a scam, but I really thought maybe he was going around making sure everyone was leaving before Isaac hit. So I opened the door. He said to me, pointing at the apartment across the hall from mine, "Do you know the woman who lives there?" I told him, honestly, that I had just moved in a couple of weeks earlier and didn't know any of my neighbors. "Oh," he said. "Well, if you happen to see her, can you give me a call?" And he gave me a card.
Now, I wondered, what the hell was that all about? Was I living opposite a murder suspect? Or was she just a witness to a crime? OR WAS SHE SUSPECTED TO BE THE VICTIM OF A CRIME? I don't know, but when I was leaving my apartment to go to the airport to flee Isaac, a man did come out of the apartment opposite me, and I spent the whole ride to the airport debating whether this required me to get in touch with the police. I had specifically been told to look for a woman, and this had clearly been a man. Unless the woman was a master of disguise? But what if this was *evidence* in some way, what I had seen? Could it possibly be evidence?
I decided that I was insane and, also, that I wanted to avoid getting involved in whatever nonsense was happening as much as possible. And, frankly, I forgot about the whole thing. Isaac happened, and although it was no Katrina, the power was out for a whole week. Not that it mattered to me, because I spent that week in New England visiting friends and family and being very happy.
A few weeks after I returned from my Isaac evacuation, there was another knock on my door. The policeman again. He again asked me if I'd seen the woman. I said no, but I did tell him that I'd seen a man leave the apartment the day before Isaac hit. The policeman didn't look interested in this at all. In fact, he seemed to be confused about why I was even mentioning it. I decided that, whatever craziness was going on there, it apparently was neither pressing nor alarming, judging from the policeman's blase attitude toward it.
I never did find out what any of that was.
I relate this story now because today, at 6:45 am on a Saturday morning, I was woken by insistent banging on my door. I spent a little while thinking that maybe I was dreaming it, or maybe it was somebody else's door, before realizing: No, it was definitely *my* door. And then suddenly I was like, OH MY GOD WHAT IF THERE'S AN EMERGENCY GOING ON. So I got out of bed and went to the door.
A peek through the peephole revealed a man with a white beard resembling Santa Claus. You must understand that I'd been woken from a deep sleep, so I was very disoriented, and I was thinking, ...Is it much later in the day than I thought? Have I slept the day away? How long have I been asleep? Did I sleep until next Christmas?
The man started banging on my door again as I was standing there, so I opened it the tiniest crack and was like, "Hi?"
"Miss Borden?" he said to me.*
"...No," I said. Truthfully.
"Miss Conner?" he said.
"...No," I said again. Truthfully again.
Now he frowned at me, annoyed, like I was lying about this, and held up a clipboard he was holding, on which was a typewritten sheet of paper that contained an address highlighted in green. I was too discombobulated to read the rest of what was on the paper (I wish I had! I fail at observation!), but I could see the address.
"It says here Apartment 7307!" he informed me, as if this were some kind of incontrovertible proof.
"And you might note by the numbers on my door that I live in apartment *4*307," I pointed out.
"Hmph," he said, as if these were not two totally separate numbers.
"Also," I added, "your address says Oak Street, but right now you're on Main Street."
This seemed to give him pause. "...Oh," he said, glancing down at the address.
"That is not my address at all," I told him, "not even a little bit."
He looked up at me, smiling like this was all a charming misunderstanding, and started to say, "I'm so sorr--"
I slammed the door on him and locked it. Because, like, *seriously.* He must have been a process server or a debt collector, this is the only thing I can think, trying to catch people when they can't avoid him, and I get that that's his job, but, before knocking on people's doors at 6:45 am on a Saturday morning, MAYBE CHECK TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU ARE SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO THE RIGHT ADDRESS. HE COULDN'T HAVE EVEN LOOKED. HE WASN'T EVEN CLOSE. It was like he just chose a random door to walk up to, like, "Hey, good enough as any! Maybe I'll get lucky and stumble across them in hiding!" ARGH. I cannot even deal with so much incompetence.
This put me in a terrible mood, and then the pre-partying for today's parades started at 8 am, and I was even more annoyed. I am going away for Mardi Gras this year. No one is coming to visit, and I'm kind of over the parades at this point, which meant I would have just spent four straight days holed up in my apartment, because you can't *get* anywhere in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, the streets are either closed or gridlocked. So, anyway, I'm going away, and I am *so* excited about it. I was going to go to England and do research for my original trilogy, but that trip ended up having to require me driving, and I hate to drive in the UK (I am not good at the side-switching!). So instead I am being absolutely ridiculous and going to Paris. I've already been to Paris, so I don't need to do any touristing. I am just going to sit at cafes and eat chocolate croissants and write and write and write. I have *always* wanted to do that. I think that's why I love "Midnight in Paris" so much, because there's a not-so-little piece of me that still thinks I was a coward for not running off to Paris to live in a garret and write to my heart's content. I think there's a not-so-little piece of every English major with a proclivity toward writing that feels that way. So, anyway, I got a deal on a flight, and I'm going to Paris. My father is freaking out about this, because I am going to be alone in a foreign city and he is worried I am going to be kidnapped. I want to tell him, "I'm going to be much safer than I am in my apartment building, where all my neighbors are apparently getting up to the world's sketchiest activities."
I won't, though.
*All names and addresses have been changed to protect the innocent. The innocent being me, mostly
It compelled no such panic in the New Orleanians all around me. You'd think they'd never had any kind of hurricane-related disaster at all. They seemed to think I was insane to have made plans to leave the city before Isaac hit. They seemed to think I was overreacting. Maybe this is how you can survive here: by having a very selective memory. All I know is that I spent a lot of time figuring out which of my belongings were most precious to me and needed to fly north with me while complaining that I'd rather have a snowstorm any day. (Of course, I mean a snowstorm in New England, where all it means is that you spend a day snuggled under a warm, fuzzy blanket. I was living in Boston the day Boston got the most snow it's ever gotten in a 24-hour period. I watched soap operas all day, and the next morning I walked through shoveled-out paths to Tealuxe. ::shrug;:)
ANYWAY, why am I saying any of this? Isaac happened way back in September! I am saying it because that was the first time a crazy person knocked on my door.
I peered through the peephole before I opened it, and it was a uniformed policeman. Now it crossed my mind that this could have been a scam, but I really thought maybe he was going around making sure everyone was leaving before Isaac hit. So I opened the door. He said to me, pointing at the apartment across the hall from mine, "Do you know the woman who lives there?" I told him, honestly, that I had just moved in a couple of weeks earlier and didn't know any of my neighbors. "Oh," he said. "Well, if you happen to see her, can you give me a call?" And he gave me a card.
Now, I wondered, what the hell was that all about? Was I living opposite a murder suspect? Or was she just a witness to a crime? OR WAS SHE SUSPECTED TO BE THE VICTIM OF A CRIME? I don't know, but when I was leaving my apartment to go to the airport to flee Isaac, a man did come out of the apartment opposite me, and I spent the whole ride to the airport debating whether this required me to get in touch with the police. I had specifically been told to look for a woman, and this had clearly been a man. Unless the woman was a master of disguise? But what if this was *evidence* in some way, what I had seen? Could it possibly be evidence?
I decided that I was insane and, also, that I wanted to avoid getting involved in whatever nonsense was happening as much as possible. And, frankly, I forgot about the whole thing. Isaac happened, and although it was no Katrina, the power was out for a whole week. Not that it mattered to me, because I spent that week in New England visiting friends and family and being very happy.
A few weeks after I returned from my Isaac evacuation, there was another knock on my door. The policeman again. He again asked me if I'd seen the woman. I said no, but I did tell him that I'd seen a man leave the apartment the day before Isaac hit. The policeman didn't look interested in this at all. In fact, he seemed to be confused about why I was even mentioning it. I decided that, whatever craziness was going on there, it apparently was neither pressing nor alarming, judging from the policeman's blase attitude toward it.
I never did find out what any of that was.
I relate this story now because today, at 6:45 am on a Saturday morning, I was woken by insistent banging on my door. I spent a little while thinking that maybe I was dreaming it, or maybe it was somebody else's door, before realizing: No, it was definitely *my* door. And then suddenly I was like, OH MY GOD WHAT IF THERE'S AN EMERGENCY GOING ON. So I got out of bed and went to the door.
A peek through the peephole revealed a man with a white beard resembling Santa Claus. You must understand that I'd been woken from a deep sleep, so I was very disoriented, and I was thinking, ...Is it much later in the day than I thought? Have I slept the day away? How long have I been asleep? Did I sleep until next Christmas?
The man started banging on my door again as I was standing there, so I opened it the tiniest crack and was like, "Hi?"
"Miss Borden?" he said to me.*
"...No," I said. Truthfully.
"Miss Conner?" he said.
"...No," I said again. Truthfully again.
Now he frowned at me, annoyed, like I was lying about this, and held up a clipboard he was holding, on which was a typewritten sheet of paper that contained an address highlighted in green. I was too discombobulated to read the rest of what was on the paper (I wish I had! I fail at observation!), but I could see the address.
"It says here Apartment 7307!" he informed me, as if this were some kind of incontrovertible proof.
"And you might note by the numbers on my door that I live in apartment *4*307," I pointed out.
"Hmph," he said, as if these were not two totally separate numbers.
"Also," I added, "your address says Oak Street, but right now you're on Main Street."
This seemed to give him pause. "...Oh," he said, glancing down at the address.
"That is not my address at all," I told him, "not even a little bit."
He looked up at me, smiling like this was all a charming misunderstanding, and started to say, "I'm so sorr--"
I slammed the door on him and locked it. Because, like, *seriously.* He must have been a process server or a debt collector, this is the only thing I can think, trying to catch people when they can't avoid him, and I get that that's his job, but, before knocking on people's doors at 6:45 am on a Saturday morning, MAYBE CHECK TO MAKE SURE THAT YOU ARE SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO THE RIGHT ADDRESS. HE COULDN'T HAVE EVEN LOOKED. HE WASN'T EVEN CLOSE. It was like he just chose a random door to walk up to, like, "Hey, good enough as any! Maybe I'll get lucky and stumble across them in hiding!" ARGH. I cannot even deal with so much incompetence.
This put me in a terrible mood, and then the pre-partying for today's parades started at 8 am, and I was even more annoyed. I am going away for Mardi Gras this year. No one is coming to visit, and I'm kind of over the parades at this point, which meant I would have just spent four straight days holed up in my apartment, because you can't *get* anywhere in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, the streets are either closed or gridlocked. So, anyway, I'm going away, and I am *so* excited about it. I was going to go to England and do research for my original trilogy, but that trip ended up having to require me driving, and I hate to drive in the UK (I am not good at the side-switching!). So instead I am being absolutely ridiculous and going to Paris. I've already been to Paris, so I don't need to do any touristing. I am just going to sit at cafes and eat chocolate croissants and write and write and write. I have *always* wanted to do that. I think that's why I love "Midnight in Paris" so much, because there's a not-so-little piece of me that still thinks I was a coward for not running off to Paris to live in a garret and write to my heart's content. I think there's a not-so-little piece of every English major with a proclivity toward writing that feels that way. So, anyway, I got a deal on a flight, and I'm going to Paris. My father is freaking out about this, because I am going to be alone in a foreign city and he is worried I am going to be kidnapped. I want to tell him, "I'm going to be much safer than I am in my apartment building, where all my neighbors are apparently getting up to the world's sketchiest activities."
I won't, though.
*All names and addresses have been changed to protect the innocent. The innocent being me, mostly
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