If I Die Before I Wake

If I die before I wake, somebody please call the cops because I'm pretty sure I just met the guy who is going to murder me in my sleep and stuff a pillow with my hair and/or make a leisure suit from my skin. I mean, he didn't throw me in a pit and spray me down with a garden hose every time I failed to put the lotion in the basket, but that's only because I didn't give him the chance. You may think that due to my penchant for hyperbole I am exaggerating. I say nay, my friend. Nay. I have an eyewitness and she will attest to the fact that this guy definitely killed small animals as a child and even odds say he has a human head in his freezer.

I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.

As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.

Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.

"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.

He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.

"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.

"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."

Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.

I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.