Basement Baby Photo

This is the darkest story you’ll read here, so be forewarned. It’s more creepy-weird than funny-weird. Nobody dies in it, though.

My wife and I live in a house described as “1961-ish” in its official documentation, which says to me there’s a bit of quirkiness in its history. There’s nothing really odd about the structure itself - no secret passages (I’ve checked a few times), no mysterious chests in the attic (just an old purple bong hidden behind a rafter), no unexplained cold spots (the poor caulking on some of the windows being the cause) - no, nothing very out of the ordinary at all... except for what I found in the basement, not long after moving in... (please press Play on your cassette of Bach’s “Fugue in D Minor” if you have it handy).

A few weeks after we’d moved into this house, I was enthused to finally be able to set up my basement’s worth of musical equipment in an actual basement. Before that, it was occupying the majority of two walk-in closets in our apartment, as well as taking up some offsite storage space at a friend’s house. I was excited to get everything up and running so I could acclimate our neighbors to our desired level of noise.

I’d just about had everything wired when I tossed a guitar cable over one of the exposed ceiling beams. In a moment taken directly from a horror film, the cable disturbed a pile of dust, which filled the air and gently wafted down to the concrete floor... carrying something with it... a photograph.

The photo landed face-up. I bent down to examine it, then checked behind me to see if John Carpenter or Wes Craven were filming me. It was a cracked Polaroid of a baby, looking greenish under harsh lighting. Just to ensure the spooky atmosphere, the baby wasn’t even smiling (something babies typically enjoy doing, especially when being photographed) - it was grimacing horribly.

I tried to walk up the stairs to show her, but she forced me to tell her the story first. Once I did, she wouldn’t look at the photo, and issued this warning: “Do not bring that thing anywhere near our bedroom!”

I gave the beam a closer inspection. There were no other photos hidden up there, and its width was exactly the width of the photo. Someone had taken this picture of a baby - possibly in this very basement - and placed it upon the beam, perfectly aligning it so it was hidden from view. But who would do something so creepy? So... eerie?

(Don’t get excited thinking there’s an answer coming, by the way. I never find out what the heck was up with that thing.)

But, I did bring it up to show my wife - or at least, I tried to. Sharon was up in our bedroom, and I called to her, holding the photo at my side in preparation to punctuate the end of the story by suddenly shoving it in her face (I’m mean). She knew something was going on, though - my Vincent Price-esque tone must have given me away.

“What is that in your hand?!” she asked. “Tell me!”

I tried to walk up the stairs to show her, but she forced me to tell her the story first. Once I did, she wouldn’t look at the photo, and issued this warning: “Do not bring that thing anywhere near our bedroom!”

I really wanted someone else besides me to see Creepy Baby Photo, but I also wanted to remain married, so after a few failed attempts to get her to check it out (“Come on... it’s not too horrifying... that someone took a photo of a baby with an evil expression on its face... and then hid it in the basement of the house we just bought...”), I gave up, threw it in a big box of trash, and it was collected that night, never to be seen again.

Of course, when I’m alone in the basement now, occasionally I hear the faint sound of a child crying... but it always turns out to be Sharon watching reality shows about families with seventeen children. Now that’s scary.

Honk If You Want a Beating

Apartment life can be rough. You’ve got parking issues, strange smells seeping through walls, neighbors having parties and not inviting you (I’m still hurt, Achmed). And noise - I vote “noise” to be the numero uno issue that leads to conflict between the renters of the world. If only we could completely block out the sounds of the neighbors with whom we share walls with, I believe the tension found in apartment buildings would instantly drop down to a dull roar.

But that hasn’t happened yet, and that certainly was not the case back when I lived in my first apartment. Living only ten or so minutes from my workplace at the time, I prided myself on being able to wake up only an hour before I had to be at my desk while still having enough time to shave, shower, get dressed and enjoy some coffee before driving in. So when my luxurious 7:00 a.m. wakeup time started being interrupted at 5:30 by a repeated BEEP-BEEP-BEEEEEEEEPing vehicle parked out front, I was none too pleased.

The first day, I chalked it up as a one-time situation. Maybe one of my neighbors was being picked up by an airport shuttle van. I could forgive that. But it happened again the second day, and I immediately began visualizing a confrontation. Hopefully it was a timid old lady, not even aware that she was leaning on her horn. I peeked out my window in time to see the offending vehicle speed away.

By the third day, I managed to drag my groggy self out of bed before the culprit escaped. It was a large red truck with orange and yellow flames painted on the hood, and wheel extensions that set it far enough off the ground so that my car could safely drive under it without any risk of contact. This beast looked cartoonish as it idled violently in the pre-dawn parking lot. Little old ladies do not drive monster trucks - I knew this. After a minute or so, I caught one of my neighbors jumping into the passenger seat, and again the vehicle careened away. Damn them!

On the fourth morning, I woke up early - thus disturbing my own sleep - but I was determined to stop the beeping situation from progressing. I even took the time to put together a little outfit that I could wear to my confrontation (I chose flannel and ripped jeans, to make me look tough). I turned on the clock radio and waited.

During this stakeout (a very convenient stakeout, since I didn’t have to leave my bed), I hoped many things. I hoped the red truck would not come again that day. I also hoped that if it did come, it would not beep. A third hope I had was that if the truck came, and beeped, maybe I wouldn’t have the fortitude to go out there and confront the driver. Or, if I did, it would be a very meek, mild dude - someone who hides a timid personality behind his vehicle’s customization. If not, though - maybe the neighbors, who were surely bothered by all the racket as well, would come out and back me up. If not, they may have called the police in the past few days. And the final hope I harbored that morning was that if the truck came, and beeped, and I did go through with the confrontation, and the driver was not timid but the kind of guy his truck suggested, and no neighbors or officers of the law appeared at my side, that I would use some slick mental trickery to get him to apologize and stop his behavior. All of this was a lot to keep track of, but the effort involved kept me from drifting back to sleep.

After thinking that he may not have had automatic windows, I did the international “roll-it-down” hand gesture. What could be more clear than that? What I forgot to do was to realize that, even though it was a brisk morning, not everyone keeps their windows up.

You can guess which way all of this went. The truck came and beeped longer than ever before. I’d already donned my battle garb, so I couldn’t back out. I strutted out my front door into the fog-covered parking lot, adding to the dreamlike atmosphere. I saw the driver, a grizzled man wearing a dirty wife-beater and a sweaty red bandana. How do you work up a sweat before 5:00 a.m.?

Adrenaline fueled me... and caused me to make my first misstep. I furrowed my brow and pointed down repeatedly, indicating to the driver to lower his window. The window didn’t move, and the driver looked confused. I pointed again as I approached, moving my finger down with maximum aggression. After thinking that he may not have had automatic windows, I did the “roll-it-down” hand gesture. What could be more clear than that? What I forgot to do was to realize that, even though it was a brisk morning, not everyone keeps their windows up. The truck’s driver leaned out of the open window and said, “It’s already down.” It hadn’t occurred to me that this might be the case. I probably should have looked for a reflection first.

My confidence shaken, I still moved forward toward the guy. I always feel these types of situations must be handled delicately, as the person you have a disagreement with knows where you live, and can easily, say, put a garden hose through your mail slot and flood your apartment (I always feared this). So I put on my best reasonable-but-firm voice and said him:

“Hey, how are you? I just wanted to talk to you about the beeping.” I couldn’t prevent myself from making a horn-beeping motion with my hand. Why did I do that?

“What beeping?” was his reply. He beeped every day, he’s in a car now, but he wasn’t able to understand my beeping reference. This was not going to go smoothly.

“You know, you pull up every morning and you beep on your horn, and then someone gets in your car?” I felt like I was writing a Second Grade essay, but at least I was able to hold myself back from making the horn-beeping gesture this time.

The driver, who dangled a cigarette from his lips, pushed out a thick cloud of smoke then flicked his ashes on the ground. He didn’t seem to shaken by me, despite my assertive attitude and well-worn clothes.

“Oh yeah but man, it’s like, I gotta pick up my friend here in the morning and take him to work. He got a D.U.I. and now he’s afraid to drive so he needs me to pick him up!” He sounded like an innocent child, genuinely trying to make me see things his way.

I returned his volley. “Right, I thought that you might be giving someone a ride to work,” I said. This is a pretty fair assumption when you see a person get into another person’s vehicle in the early morning. They are probably not going to see a movie.

“But,” I continued, “I was talking with some of the other neighbors, and you probably don’t realize it, but we can all hear your beeping in the morning. And some of them are retirees, or parents with sleeping babies, and it’s really started to disturb them.”

Okay, none of that was true. But come on! It may have been true... I just didn’t really know any of my neighbors (besides the ones who stalked me). I just wanted to strengthen my case. This guy knew where I lived... he could have filled my gas tank with sugar. I don’t like when people do that.

I knew I should build him back up after breaking him down so harshly. “We knew... we knew you might not realize that, about the sound, but yeah... it does travel.” I was not good at thinking on my feet.

He came back with, “Really? Oh sorry - I didn’t know.” And the funny thing was, he actually did seem surprised and regretful. I would have thought that anyone who was crankin’ out the beeps before the sun rose, in the center of an apartment complex composed of 400 units, would have had no regard for anyone else, and would have assumed that this person understood the whole thing about sound traveling. But that was not so with this guy. This guy believed that his waiting friend was the lone recipient of his arrival signal.

“Yeah, but it’s cool - it’s cool.” I knew I should build him back up after breaking him down so harshly. “We knew... we knew you might not realize that, about the sound, but yeah... it does travel.” I was not good at thinking on my feet.

I started to back off, not wanting to overstay my welcome, or risk the driver’s attitude changing. Plus, it was pretty chilly out there. I would have worn a coat, but I didn’t want to destroy the illusion that I’d just pulled on my clothes after jumping out of bed, though I was probably giving this guy too much credit.

“Alright I won’t beep no more!” he called out. I’d already been working under the assumption that he wasn’t going to beep again, because of his apology, but he seemed to need some reassurance that I wasn’t mad.

“Okay! Yeah, good!” I said, adding a little chuckle at the end to reinforce my pleasure. I was walking backwards at this point. “Thanks for doing that... no more!” I’d begun confusing myself. Had to get inside.

The driver waved to me just as my neighbor jumped in the passenger seat and shut the door. Actually, he slammed his door and it echoed loudly against the brick apartment buildings, but I decided to leave well enough alone. After that fateful morning, the beeps stopped for good - or I slept through them. Either way, I’d done my part to keep the peace, and managed to avoid violence. If anyone else had noise problem in the future, they could deal with it themselves. I needed sleepy time.

A Tale of Two Tires

As of this writing, I’ve lived in my house for eight years. And in those eight years, I’ve had two tires rip off moving cars and roll up onto my property. I’m willing to bet that’s at least one more tire-rip-roll than most homeowners have experienced.

Tire #1 happened a few winters ago. My kitchen window overlooks the busy road we live on. I started brewing a pot of coffee and as I did, glanced out the window at our snow-covered front lawn. So pristine. So winter-y.

I went to the refrigerator, removed the creamer, and went back to the coffee pot. As I did, I looked out the window again. This time, I saw a big black doughnut laying next to a fire hydrant by the road. It took me a second to register what it was, and when I did, I ran outside and saw a work truck - sans one wheel - resting gently on the hill of snow that lined the road.

I ran over to the truck and saw two guys inside. I asked them how they were and they said, “cool” and “good” respectively. Let’s face it - they were in shock. They were damn lucky they landed the way they did, and they still seemed to be in the process of realizing their good fortune. I offered them some coffee, but they politely declined. They called a tow truck and eventually departed. I never got their contact info, so we do not keep in touch.

I went over to the road, expecting to see a disabled car blocking traffic. But the cars were moving along as normal. How is that possible? That tire was warm from a violent ripping. It was no mere spare.

Tire #2 occurred a couple years later in the summer. I’d been mowing my lawn, just casually going from one horizontal row to the next. That's how I mow. I was listening to music, so I didn’t hear anything, but from the corner of my eye I caught something moving in the middle of the lawn. I think you already know what it is (if not, check the title above for clues).

I turned off the mower and walked over to the tire. The sidewalls were ragged and when I touched them, they were still hot. It had obviously just been ripped off the side of a moving car. Exciting stuff!

I went over to the road, expecting to see a disabled car blocking traffic (we have no shoulder - don’t pity me). But the cars were moving along as normal. How is that possible? That tire was warm from a violent ripping. It was no mere spare. Where was its owner? Did it come from space maybe?

Sadly, I have no answer. Weird stuff happens to me, and a reason is not always given. Maybe someday a third tire will appear with all the answers and everything will finally make sense. Probably not, though.

Massachusetts Guy

Massachusetts Guy manifested when I moved into my first apartment - a perfect time for a potential stalker to make his debut. I lived in a small one bedroom place (it’s really difficult to find a large one-bedroom place) and I was paranoid about living alone for the first time anyway, when I first noticed a red car with Massachusetts plates parked directly in front of my bedroom window. We didn’t have assigned spots, so this wasn’t uncommon or a problem. What did raise my cackles was seeing the driver sitting there, in the dark, as I returned from the laundry room in another building one night.

Carrying my laundry basket in the dark, my eyes first focused on the strange windshield glare, wondering why the shape inside the parked car - with engine off - looked so much like a human head. And then I realized I was looking at an adult male, sitting silently in his non-idling vehicle, only a few steps from my front door. There’s something freaky about knowing someone is watching you as you carry your recently washed socks into your empty apartment. I didn’t let it show that I’d noticed the guy, but I checked through my peephole many times after entering - and making sure the deadbolt was secured - and sure enough, he was still there. Not on his way into his apartment (assuming he lived there); not on his way driving off somewhere.

No, just hanging out, probably planning a murder spree.

I didn’t see him the next day, but two days later I saw his car in the same spot, with him - instantly dubbed “Massachusetts Guy” - inside. He was unassuming (as all serial killers seem to be) - a middle-aged man, curly hair, tinted sunglasses (that’s a bad sign), wearing the kind of blue blazer typically worn at country club-sponsored events. He didn’t seem to be watching me, or doing anything in particular, but as I passed I did hear the faint sound of talk radio. That at least raised him one level above the kind of weirdo who would sit in his car alone all day in silence. I allowed myself a modicum of comfort.

Massachusetts Guy was around more and more in the next few weeks, but since I hadn’t heard anyone trying to sneak in through my window or picking the lock on my door at night, and no news of anyone’s mysterious disappearance in the complex, I let my guard down. I even passed by his car (with him in it, still in his favorite parking spot) several times in the daylight, and took notice of a stack of napkins on his passenger seat, so tall that it could easily provide a refill for a fast food place’s napkin dispenser. Disturbing. And, though I saw him emptying large bags of bottles and cans into the recycling dumpster a few times, I still hadn’t caught him entering or exiting an apartment unit, so I continued wondering if he was merely an odd neighbor or a vagrant with dark designs on me.

My fears rose again when, taking a day off from work, I happened to see Massachusetts Guy pulling around the corner. I was at the trash dumpsters and hung back stealthily, curious to see where he’d park. Maybe I’d get to see which, if any, apartment was his. Since it was the middle of the summer and our triangle-shaped complex had a pool for use by its residents in the center of the buildings, only a few parking spots were empty, and nothing was open in the vicinity of my front door. M.G. pulled into a spot about five units down from my front door, and I thought I had him. It must be Option #1 - a weird, but not mentally-disturbed, neighbor. I could deal with that.

I was about to head back inside when I saw a woman with two small children walk from the pool path to her car, which was parked next to mine. I paused... as she pulled out, Massachusetts Guy spared no time in whipping out of his second-choice spot and pulling into the newly vacated first-choice perch and remaining there until after the sun had set. That was it - there was no reason I could think of why he needed that particular spot - only about seven or eight spaces from the one he had - and so important that he’d been staking it out. “Okay,” I thought, “he is planning my murder after all.” I started to go through my suits, wondering which would look best on my corpse.

Hearing his voice - which not surprisingly was slathered with the thickest Massachusetts accent I’ve ever heard - was strangely comforting. “Excuse me, young man,” Massachusetts Guy inquired, “but may I ask you a favor?”

The next morning I was heading off to work, and I saw Massachsetts Guy performing some task in his opened trunk. For all I knew, he was out there all night. Emboldened by the daylight, I made up my mind to talk to him and find out what was up with him. Hey, if he was going to kill me, at least I wanted to have a shot at holding my own while the sun was shining.

Before I could approach him, though, he saw me and turned to me with a curious expression. Hearing his voice - which not surprisingly was slathered with the thickest Massachusetts accent I’ve ever heard - was strangely comforting. “Excuse me, young man,” Massachusetts Guy inquired, “but may I ask you a favor?”

“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?” I tried to sound innocent and murderable.

“It’s just that my car... my car isn’t running well, and I wanted to see if you could give me a lift to the bus station. I’m heading to New York, you see.” His word selection was odd, like something from an old movie that was also stupid.

“Oh, no problem. That’s on my way to work,” I told him. I wasn’t lying. Some might call me crazy, but I was excited at the prospect of getting this weirdo into my car. If he tried to knife me, I thought, I’ll quickly steer into oncoming traffic and take him out with me. It’ll be cinematic.

He got into my passenger seat and we drove off. Now he was on my turf. He asked me where I worked and what I did. I told him the truth - what did it matter anyway? We’d both likely be dead soon enough.

Then I slowly began questioning him. He claimed to live only a few doors down from me, and I believed him. I didn’t ask him about the parking spot yet, though - I was holding back on that. I asked him his name, and it turned out to be... Steve. Lovely. Perhaps he was my dark reflection.

I got more information out of him. He was heading to New York for the day because, “South Jersey women are too stuck on themselves.” Interesting. I suppose he thought New York women would give him some relief.

I then asked him about his job (which I was sure he didn’t have, due to him never leaving his car all day long) but he dodged the question, instead telling me about his longtime dream project - a biography of John Philip Sousa. He became noticeably excited when I told him I knew of Sousa, and started giving me the “approach” for his book, which I’ve since mercifully forgotten. I’m sure it was an original “take” on Sousa.

As we were getting closer to the bus station, I started to prepare for his inevitable attack. It wouldn’t be long now. I took it as a sign when he told me he’d been “noticing me” (ewwww) packing and loading all of my photography equipment - which was really drum equipment, but I didn’t want to correct him. “Let Massachusetts Guy believe I’m a photographer,” I thought. “It’ll throw him off... trip him up.” I was feeling pretty clever.

Then, a minute before we’d have been at the bus station, while waiting to cross a busy cloverleaf intersection, he surprised me. “You can let me out right here,” he said.

It was a trick - it must be. I wanted to confront him once we parked at the station. Now there were moving cars, traffic lights... this was all wrong. But I had no time to work up a Plan B - we were stopped at a red light, and Massachusetts Guy already popped the door lock.

“No, it’s okay - I can take you right to the bus station... it’s no problem!” I was starting to sound desperate. This was wrong, all wrong....

My chance for an explanation/broad daylight death was slipping away. Now I’d have to go back to wondering alone at night, what this guy was doing mere feet from my bed.

He was planting his foot on the ground. “No, that’s fine... I can just walk from here.” It was an odd decision - once the light turned I could have taken him across a major highway, but he was choosing to hoof it. Well, he was crazy, after all.

My chance for an explanation/broad daylight death was slipping away. Now I’d have to go back to wondering alone at night, what this guy was doing mere feet from my bed. “Thanks,” he said, as he held the passenger side door open.

Just before he closed the door, however, he leaned back in. Here it comes... where’s the knife? Or would his weapon of choice be something more subtle? A blackjack, perhaps? Poison?

But he only had words for me. Deep words... an explanation I didn’t expect:

“By the way,” Massachusetts Guy said calmly (maybe too calmly?), “If you ever see me sitting in my car at night in front of your apartment and wonder why I’m there... well, I’m listening to Boston Radio! You see, I can only get the station in clearly in that one spot, and I have to keep up on my Redsox games! They may go all the way this year!”

I don’t believe I responded. His bellowing laugh blended into the street noise as he strolled off to cross four lanes of traffic. As I pulled away, I thought, “That... that explains it... the spot... why he needed to be right there specifically... the radio sounds I heard... the lack of a murder attempt... it all made sense...

From that point on, Massachusetts Guy and I were buds. Okay, not really “buds”, but I didn’t fear him. We talked about music, women, and his loyalty to the state I secretly named him after. Even when a friend explained to me, “Dude, did you ever think he could be listening to baseball games in his car AND still be a murderer?”, I wouldn’t hear anything of it. We were tight now, and if M.G. really was a killer, hey - I didn’t consider myself a target any longer.

I never found out what was up with those napkins, though.

Bee Guy

Bee Guy came into my life when my wife and I moved into our first place together - a very safe, very typical south Jersey apartment complex. We met a few of the neighbors as we were settling in and everyone seemed friendly and relatively sane.

Then a few days later, as I was walking to my car, I noticed a strange man crossing the small grassy hill at the center of our horseshoe-shaped street - except he seemed to be stuck by some invisible force and couldn’t quite move from his position.

Trying to be a good new neighbor, I approached. He seemed to be in his late 50’s and had the look of the average male retiree - t-shirt, baseball cap, and short pants with requisite black socks hiked up just below the knees. He had aimed himself at the opposing side of the 20” wide grass area, and even though his arms and legs were extended in the traditional walking pose, his body wasn’t moving.

I walked over and asked him if he was okay. “Huhm? Oh yeah, yeah. Fine,” he replied. “I’m just keeping an eye on the bees. You... you do know about the bees, don’t you?” You may recognize this as crazy talk. I sure did. My weirdometer was already pegged to the max, but I let him elaborate.

The man who was to be known as Bee Guy explained to me that the apartment complex was infested with killer bees. Not your run-of-the-mill killer bees, though – he said these were “Chicano Killer Bees”. They’d come up from Mexico and were systematically taking out all the rabbits and birds in our complex. He sounded completely sincere.

“You see how there’s less birds around here than there used to be?” he asked. I agreed, though I’d only lived in the complex for a week and didn’t yet have a handle on the fluctuations in its bird population. “I see them attack! I see them!” He seemed to be teetering on the edge of sanity.

And though Bee Guy showed a great deal of caution regarding the bees, he also displayed a type of macho dragon-killer side of his personality when he managed to locate a bee just as it was emerging from its nest in the dirt (and showing no signs of its Latin heritage) and smashed it flat on the asphalt. He then pulled out a pen he seemed to keep on hand for this purpose and ripped the bee’s body apart for me.

“I break it up so the other ones don’t eat it. They do that to get stronger.” I was scared now. This was our new neighbor. Plus, who’s to say the other bees couldn’t eat their buddy now that he was torn apart? Bee Guy probably only made it easier for them, the jerk.

I later learned that Bee Guy had encounters with most of our other neighbors, who regarded him as mildly amusing and relatively harmless. Our upstairs neighbor worked for a state environmental agency and told me that to satisfy his own curiosity, he’d actually researched “Chicano Killer Bees” at his job - and, as he suspected - they didn’t exist.

Even though the bees were less plentiful by Fall, Bee Guy was still outside all the time. My wife had several encounters with him. Sometimes he’d take note of her white baker’s coat and would ask her, “Do you cut hair?” When she told him that she was a baker, he suggested to her that she should still pursue the hair thing, since her outfit was similar to a barber’s.

Another time, while pointing to a bird (one of those spared from the bees, apparently) Bee Guy told another neighbor that it had followed him up to New Jersey from Florida. Then, indicating two trees, he said, “He has a wife in that tree... and a mistress in that one.”

He and I had another notable parking lot encounter in the Winter. On a day when it had snowed more than a foot, Bee Guy was trudging around the parking lot, digging into the snow. I walked over and asked him what was up, and he told me that he’d lost one of the lenses from his glasses.

“Oh... it would never break. Never ever! That lens - it’s made from the same material they use to make cockpits for stealth fighters. Do you know how strong that material is?!”

I made the mistake of saying, “Well, I hope you can find it before a car runs over it.” Bee Guy looked up at me with one fogged-up lens and his wide eye staring through the other empty space. He chuckled, pitying my error.

“Oh... it would never break. Never ever! That lens - it’s made from the same material they use to make cockpits for stealth fighters. Do you know how strong that material is?!”

He sounded totally convincing. I shook my head “no.”

“It’s so strong,” Bee Guy said, “that if you attach that lens to a monofilament wire using a piece of tape, and then you attach the other end of the wire to a machine that’s mounted to the bottom of a plane, and you use a remote control from the ground to release that wire and it fell down to the ground, and then the plane goes into a dive after it, and then when the lens hits the ground from like a mile up and the plane crashes right into it and explodes and all the apartments around here were decimated, just leveled to nothing at all, and there wasn’t even asphalt where we’re standing right now - you’d find that lens here and there wouldn't be one damn scratch on it.”

Well, of course I already knew something was wrong with him, but that cemented it. He just stared at me. I said, “Wow. That is strong.” I didn’t put any effort into making my comment sound believable because he wouldn’t have known the difference anyway. The man was operating on another level.

A couple years later, my wife and I moved out and bought a house a few years later, and a few years after that, I happened to meet someone who lived right above our old unit in the complex. I asked her about Bee Guy, wondering if he was still there. “Oh, him.” She knew. “He was there when we first moved in, but then they came and got him.” I didn’t ask who, or why, or anything else. It had to be the bees.

Luis the Handyman

When I lived in my first apartment, once every so often I’d get a notice through my mail slot stating that some maintenance had to be done to the unit. Since I worked during the day, that meant a member of the complex’s maintenance staff would enter my apartment in the day, do whatever work they needed to do, and I’d return home to find a little note hanging off my front doorknob, alerting me that they’d made a visit.

It didn’t really comfort me to imagine the work crew roaming freely in my one-bedroom domicile, but short of taking a vacation day to keep an eye on them, there was no real alternative. As long as I didn’t find any beer cans or syringes when I walked through my door in the evening, I didn’t complain.

I lived close enough to the office that I could get home to eat a quick lunch, if it pleased me to do so. One such day, I entered my apartment and heard a robotic voice in my hallway. I left the front door open, in case a quick escape was needed. Walking cautiously, I found Luis, the head maintenance guy, in the process of installing a talking smoke alarm in my ceiling.

The idea of a smoke alarm that speaks is interesting - instead of a piercing beep that might wake a person and incite them to bolt out of their smoldering house, you get a sedate, futuristic voice informing you: “Alarm. Possible fire. Possible fire. Proceed with caution.” This may seem like an innovation to some, but the talking smoke alarm made me feel like I had a roommate on Quaaludes who was only mildly interested in escaping a blazing inferno. I’d much prefer the beeping.

Back to Luis. He was so into hardwiring the alarm, he hadn’t heard me enter, so I caught him slightly off guard. He was a very fit man in his early 40’s, very tan from his time in the sun every day. Unless it was the dead of winter, he wore a tanktop and shorts. I’d seen him around the apartments before - he was friendly, and took great pride in his work.

“Oh, I am so sorry! I had to replace the alarm here, see?” He showed me what he was doing.

“Ah, that’s no problem,” I replied.

“Oh thank you sir. I can come back if I’m interrupting.”

It would have been difficult for me to make a case that he was interrupting my lunch, so I told him to proceed. I flipped on my computer, and with my back to Luis, checked a few e-mails. I could feel him watching me, but I tried to ignore him.

A few minutes later, he spoke in a timid voice. “Excuse me, sir…I…I do not mean to interrupt, but may I ask what it is that you do? I see you use a Macintosh, and I am curious.”

I told Luis he could call me by my name, which was Steve, and I said that I was a graphic designer.

“Oh okay! I did not know that! That is so cool! I know graphics guys like Macs, but I did not know that you were one!” The man was childlike in his speech, which I attributed to his lack of interaction with actual graphics guys.

Luis then explained to me that he was taking courses in a local tech school. I was somewhat surprised, I told him I thought that was great.

Was he serious? A portion of his “webmaster class” was devoted to a discussion of me, based on ten minutes of him looking over my shoulder as I viewed my own work? What could he have told them?

“I am going to school to be a webmaster!” he said enthusiastically. While I didn’t realize that was an actual degree, I applauded his efforts.

“I know I am being a pain to you, but if it isn’t too much trouble, would you mind showing me some of your work?”

I showed Luis a few websites I’d developed. He seemed very impressed, expressing his satisfaction with an “Oh my!” or a “Oh wow!” whenever I showed him a new project.

I wrapped things up so I could get back to work. Luis was smiling at me.

“Steeven, I want to thank you for showing me your work. I appreciate it very much.” I never told him to call me “Steven”, just Steve, and he really stretched out that first syllable. It was a little creepy.

“You’re welcome, thank you for checking it out,” I said. I thanked him, shut down the computer, and grabbed a quick sandwich to eat in my car on the way back to work. Luis went back to the alarm installation, and I said goodbye to him, and left him in my apartment, which felt weird.

A few days later I saw him again, as he was speaking to a female neighbor in the street. The woman obviously was alerting him to some maintenance issue that she was passionate about, but when Luis saw me, he quickly dismissed her and told her he’d “take care of it later.” He physically turned away from her and walked toward me, calling my name: “Hello Steeven!”

He approached me as I walked toward my car. “Steeven I saw you and I wanted to thank you again for showing me all those websites you made!”

“Oh, it’s okay, no problem - you’re welcome, Luis.” I didn’t want him to think I did an actual favor - he looked at a few websites I developed. I hadn’t thrown him a surprise party or anything.

“And now I want to tell you,” he continued, “that I spoke with my teacher. I asked him for a few minutes of class time, and he let me tell the class about you and all your wonderful work!”

Was he serious? A portion of his “webmaster class” was devoted to a discussion of me, based on ten minutes of him looking over my shoulder as I viewed my own work? What could he have told them?

“So my teacher told me you should come in to speak to the class! They are very excited to have you come talk to them about web design! We meet Tuesdays and Thursdays, so you tell me what night works best for you!”

Oohhhh …he’d booked me a speaking engagement. Thanks, Luis.

Not wanting to crush him, I told him I’d think about it. I hoped to subtly remind him that even though he’d already promised the class I’d be coming in, I had far from committed to it. I felt like I was giving a small child a life lesson. He looked disappointed.

“Okay Steeven, please think about it and let me know if you can make it to our class.” He looked completely dejected. I felt bad, but not bad enough to actually take him up on his offer, which would no doubt lead to more strange incidents.

I saw Luis a few more times in the following weeks, and he politely brought up the idea of me speaking to his class each time he saw me. With equal politeness, I told him I was quite busy at the moment, but I would certainly keep his offer in mind. The whole interaction began to take on the feeling of a Victorian-era courtship, with Luis as the potential suitor and me as the young maiden. This made me uncomfortable, and I avoided interacting with him whenever possible. There were 400 units in my complex, but he now seemed to always be in very close proximity to my apartment. When I saw him, I’d plant a preoccupied expression on my face, and I’d walk with purpose to my car or front door, so as to avoid confrontation.

“Steeven, I heard that you are leaving us. I am really sad to see you go, because you are one of the good people here. I should not even say that you are ‘one of the good people’ - you are a very special person, Steeven, and we were very fortunate to have you live here.”

My interactions with Luis soon dwindled. I’d see him once in a while, clearing fallen tree branches from the road, and I’d wave and smile moderately. Eventually I moved from the complex. Luis found this out not long after I’d given my notice, as he’d be in charge of repainting my apartment. He made a point to find me in the parking lot one sunny weekend afternoon before I made my getaway.

“Steeven, I heard that you are leaving us. I am really sad to see you go, because you are one of the good people here. I should not even say that you are ‘one of the good people’ - you are a very special person, Steeven, and we were very fortunate to have you live here. I wish you well in all your future work in graphic design, and I hope that you are very happy where you’re going.” I checked him over quickly - no gun, knife, or other type of murder weapon was showing, but I still felt unsafe.

I moved out soon after. My new apartment complex has a maintenance staff of one man, who to this point has shown absolutely no interest in me. I am totally okay with that.

Pizza Calls

The act of moving into a new residence, and the new phone numbers this act usually brings, are common cause for confusing calls. So after I moved into my first apartment, it wasn’t a big deal when I kept receiving messages on my answering machine for “Pete”, asking him to call “Big Louie” back. However, after a few dozen of these messages, I thought I’d do the nice thing and call the guy back myself, letting him know that Pete was not the one actually receiving his messages. Remember: doing the nice thing is always very, very stupid.

I dialed the number Big Louie had been leaving and learned that it belonged to a local pizza place. That’s fine. I then asked if I could speak with Big Louie, and after a few seconds’ wait I was transferred to the man himself, conveniently at his location “by da ovens”.

It turned out Big Louie really didn’t care about Pete. It turned out Pete was just one of a few guys who was “recommended” to Big Louie for some kind of a crew he was putting together for a job - a series of jobs, actually - that were to be happening sometime soon.

Big Louie sounded as cranky on the phone as he did on his messages, but he was still friendly and attentive. I explained the situation, gently told him that I wasn’t calling because I was upset, but rather because I just wanted to let him know that Pete was no longer at the number he was calling and, since it seemed important (based on the voluminous messages he’d left), he should probably try tracking down the guy some other way.

It turned out Big Louie really didn’t care about Pete. It turned out Pete was just one of a few guys who was “recommended” to Big Louie for some kind of a crew he was putting together for a job - a series of jobs, actually - that were to be happening sometime soon. This sounded strange to me, especially in the sense that a pizza shop employee was doing his recruiting from what seemed to be his place of employment.

Big Louie now began making overtures to me, about how easy this job was going to be to pull off, how much money I could make over a couple nights, and other vaguely illegal-sounding aspects regarding the gig in question. I contemplated hanging up, but resisted because he knew my phone number. I try to be extra nice to those who have the ability to hunt me down for retribution.

I let Big Louie off the hook gently, telling him I “understood where he was coming from” (it sounded convincing in the moment) but that I was very busy with work and couldn’t be part of his crew.

Louie (if I can call him that) sounded disappointed when he hung up. He told me that I could call him back if I changed my mind. I haven’t done so as of yet, but if things get rough, or even if I’m just looking for some guys to spend time with, I’ll be sure to look him up.

Meat Truck Guy

Here’s a gross one - when Sharon and I lived in our first apartment together, we started to notice a meat delivery vehicle parked outside the nicely fenced-in dumpster area at the center of our court. It appeared at all times of the day, both on weekends and weekdays. A beefy gentleman (understand that term is ironic) would get out of the vehicle, walk into the area, and return a few minutes later.

We assumed he was dumping something - this was a dumpster area, after all. Some excess meat-packing supplies, perhaps? We didn’t know and we didn’t think much of it, until two incidents took place:

Incident #1: I was taking out the trash one day, and noticed the truck in its typical resting spot. Not having any reason to alter my route, I walked into the area and saw the driver taking a pee between the trash and recycling dumpsters. He turned, saw me, and turned back to continue his business. I actually carried the trash back into our apartment in order to end our encounter. Seconds later he emerged, and unless I missed him quickly pocketing a bottle of hand sanitizer, he went back into his meat delivery vehicle without washing his hands, and drove off. Disgusting, yes - I can understand it if he didn’t have any built-in restrooms on his route, but at least find a public bathroom so people don’t have to walk through your urine puddles so they can dispose of their bottles and cans! And yet, that’s not the end of the story...

That’s how he discovered the convenient pee spot - he was our neighbor! And apparently he had no problem with driving to within yards of his front door, but was lazy enough (or preferred) to take his whizzes where the sun does shine instead of going three seconds further into his unit.

Incident #2: A week or so after “meeting” this guy, I saw his truck parked in front of the dumpsters yet - this time, though, I was looking from inside the safety of our apartment. I waited for him to emerge, toying with the idea of reporting him to his employer (if only he didn’t know where I lived...) when I saw him exit not from the dumpsters, but from an adjacent apartment’s door. That’s how he discovered the convenient pee spot - he was our neighbor! And apparently he had no problem with driving to within yards of his front door, but was lazy enough (or preferred) to take his whizzes where the sun does shine instead of going three seconds further into his unit.

We saw him many more times, both on- and off-duty, for the remainder of our time living in that complex. He eyed me with a look of, "You know my secret”, and in turn I thought, “You’re a very dirty man, and even if I wasn’t a vegetarian, I would still never order meat from you or your gross company.”

It was tough to cram that lengthy thought into the fleeting moments we had as we passed each other, but I did it... nearly every time.

Not My Sneakers

I once received a package from an expensive sneaker company delivered to my apartment. “Hooray! They finally came!”, I might have proclaimed if I’d I actually ordered some sneakers, but I had not. And though my apartment number was listed on the shipping form, the name was someone else’s entirely. It wasn’t, like, “Steve Spagucci” or “Sleeve Spatucci”. Though I don’t remember the exact name, it was much more different than either of those fake examples I just made up.

Being an honest citizen, I called the shipping company and explained the situation. Though I feared a scam, it turned out that the package was intended for one of my neighbors. The shipper just made a slight error on the apartment number. I wasn’t mad.

For some reason - misguided altruism, maybe? - I told the shipping company that I’d hand-deliver the package to my neighbor’s apartment. And since their phone number, not mine, was listed on the form, I thought I’d be nice and call them first to set up a time, rather than just leaving it on their doorstep.

I brought the unopened package to my workplace, so I could have it with with me when I made the call - just in case they intended recipient needed me to do some kind of sneaker-verification, I suppose. I dialed their number and a young voice answered “Hello?” on the first ring (that wasn’t the weird part).

“Hey, this is Steve,” I began. “I’m your neighbor, and I had a package delivered to me that I think was meant for you. Some kind of sneakers from --”

I was cut off with: “You got that?”, which they asked kind of harshly. “When?”

“Uh... it came yesterday. It looks like they put my apartment number on the form --”

They jumped in again. “I need that. When can you get it here?”

“Well, I can come by around 5:30 or 6 tonight, if you’re going to be home,” I told this person. “What’s your name?”

“Just tell me where you are and I’ll come get the package right now. What’s your apartment number?”

The whole tone was odd. They didn’t sound appreciative, as I always imagine strangers will be when I help them out. Maybe I should stop doing that, because it never really works out in my favor.

“Yeah, but look, mister... those are really expensive sneakers that I ordered for my cousin’s birthday. I really need to have them. Why don’t you just tell me where you are and I’ll come get them?” This person, whose gender I still wasn’t able to identify, was beginning to sound desperate. I felt a surge of power.

I attempted to continue. “I’m not home now. I’m at work, so I’ll --”

“Tell me where you work, then. I’ll come get it,” Talk about being forward. I didn’t need a crazy person tracking me down at work - especially since they already lived so close to me. I said, “I’d really rather not do that. I have your apartment number. Will you be there after 5:30?”

“Yeah, but look, mister... those are really expensive sneakers that I ordered for my cousin’s birthday. I really need to have them. Why don’t you just tell me where you are and I’ll come get them?” This person, whose gender I still wasn’t able to identify, was beginning to sound desperate. I felt a surge of power.

“I understand. That’s why I called - so I could get the package back to you. But I’m not going to tell you where I work or which apartment I live in.” Who’s got the upper hand now, pal/lady?

The desperation continued. “But I... I just want to make sure you’re really going to give them back!” (technically, this person never had the package, so they shouldn’t have said “back”, but I was nice enough not to correct them).

“Yes, I understand.” I was really laying down the law now. “But think about it - why would I bother to call you to schedule a time when I could bring them to you if I wasn’t going to do it? I could have kept them all along, and you would never have known where the package went.”

There was a pause. Maybe it was logic was sinking into this person’s brain.

“Yes,” they said, finally. “Yes, I’ll be here at 5:30. Just please... please bring over that package.”

After I hung up, I started thinking that maybe I was involved in some kind of spy ring. I was tempted to open the package, but thought better of it. It could be a bomb”, I thought, “and I do not know how to disarm bombs.” Instead, I synchronized my watch with the clock on my wall (which served no purpose, but felt cool) and at the scheduled time of 5:30, I headed over to my neighbor’s apartment.

Of course my expectations were not met. After all of the abrasiveness and interrupting during our phone call, the intended recipient of the sneakers turned out to be a girl of about eight years... or her older brother. I couldn’t tell, because when I walked up, the door opened a sliver. The girl was behind the door, looking fearful of me, even though I held the package out as a peace offering (as I plan to do when the aliens arrive) and her brother stood equally silent behind her, cloaked in shadow.

“I have your package,” was all I could think to say. I believe the girl nodded, but it may have just been an animalistic grunt. Judging by the ages of these kids, and the fear they seemed to have of me, I assumed they were home alone. If that was the case, they probably shouldn’t have opened the door, or scheduled this visit from a stranger (me). Maybe they bought the sneakers via some kind of credit card scam. Ooh... I didn’t think of that until right now.

I handed over the sneaker box to the girl. She let the package fall into her hands, so as to avoid the risk of making physical contact with me. The boy watched the transaction, standing guard by his post like a pre-teen enforcer.

Maybe because they were kids, or maybe because they were so wary of my presence, they didn’t say, “Thank you”... or anything else. After standing there for many awkward seconds, I broke the silence with: “Well... there you go.” The girl nodded and smiled with only a hint of terror, then closed the door slowly, watching me as she did so.

I could see the peephole darken as I walked away - they were watching. It was slightly amusing how quickly I went from trying to save someone from unnecessary hassle to feeling like a stalker of children. Only slightly, though.