When we lived in Oak Ridge there was a creepy dude that lived on the third (uppermost) floor of our apartment building. Nice? Yes, very nice, indeed, actually. What made him creepy, though, wasn’t the fortress of dishes and tupperware that never changed order and were stacked up over his sink, plainly visible to all passersby who looked up to the third floor window. It wasn’t his weird car that was the size of a boat, often had kitty litter in the back and sopping wet newspaper covering one of the back windows whose ability to roll up was apparently hindered. No, what made him creepy was his job. We’re not entirely sure what the guy did, but this gentleman, skinny as a rail, shoe-polish-black hair slicked back and age approaching senior citizen status, would often climb down the stairs from his 3rd floor apartment between the hours of 7pm and 10pm at night, get in his car and depart for the evening, his car always back in its place when we woke up in the mornings. Graveyard shift, whatever, right? But I’d still like to know what job requires you to depart at that time every night wearing a suit?
Erin told me I looked like him tonight.
Enjoy today’s haiku:
Sprite instead of Coke
Hopefully will make a mean
Lite, chocolate cake