I’m writing this way in advance because I’m moving the day this publishes. Hopefully, unless something truly horrific happens, which I hope it doesn’t. I’m also writing this in honor of moving. I first moved out of my parents house and into my first apartment in August two years ago. The decision had been really quick. One day, I was a serious post-college grad who would never ever leave home, and the next I was in Ann Arbor, trying to be an adult.
I want to say the day my parents helped me move my furniture into my apartment, my mom told me this story. My mom is a wealth of stories. She has a story for nearly everything. She’s also that person that can burst into song by hearing just a word. She doesn’t just have a wealth of stories though. She has a wealth of terrible stories, horrible stories that have happened to people she knows, or her family knows. She gets this from my Grandma O. She told me once that her mother would tell her all of these terrible stories and that’s why she has so many. I think it might be genetic because now I’ve started telling people horrible stories too.
This one was particularly unnerving, considering the situation, i.e. me moving into my first ever apartment an hour and a half away from home.
So, there’s this guy. He lived in an apartment building. During the winter months, he had this habit of going out in the morning, starting his car, and letting it heat up. He’d go back inside to finish getting ready, and then when he’d leave for work his car would be nice and toasty.
One day, when he went back outside for his car, it was missing. This sucked on multiple levels. His car was gone, but also his apartment keys. He couldn’t go into work. Later on that day, however, his car was returned. On the passenger seat was a note: “Sorry for taking your car. It was an emergency. Here’s ten dollars for the gas I used. Thanks so much!”
Obviously, things were looking up for the guy. He was able to make it into work. Nothing was missing from his car. Everything was in order. In fact, he didn’t even mind that they took his car. He felt a sort of social justice that his habits had aided someone in their time of need. Then he went home.
His apartment had been completely cleared out. As it turns out, the car thief made a copy of his keys and robbed him blind while he was at work.
My mom might as well have said, “Okay, bai!” and left to go home. She didn’t. We still had half my stuff to move into my apartment and my parents took me and my roommate out to dinner before they left for home. But, honestly, I think I looked at her and yelled, “Why would you say something like that?!” At least, I thought that very strongly in my head. I had to sleep in my apartment without the safety of my parents being in the next room. I felt like the Welsh guy in the Replacements. “Just rock me to sleep tonight, Jimbo.”
My mom didn’t mean to scare the bejeebus out of me. Her brain’s part curiosity part library. We were moving me into an apartment and she suddenly remembered a story about an apartment. I laugh about it all of the time now because it’s funny. Not for that guy, but because one attempted break in later, I’m pretty chill about apartments. As long as my metal bat is next to me while I sleep. Haha