The Truth Will Out

So, last weekend, after Gllen and I got home from a romantic date at Namaste Cafe, (Gllen loved all the food we had there and wants to go back) we ran into our downstairs neighbors, Anna and Kyle. They were sitting on their porch having a glass of wine, and I sort of invited Gllen and myself to join them. Gllen reluctantly agreed to socialize, but I know he had a nice time when all was said and done. The highlight of the evening was when, after a few drinks emboldened me, I revealed a secret that Gllen and I had been keeping from them for over a year...

Gllen had a hard time adjusting to living in the apartment at first, because he would constantly forget to take his keys with him when he left the house. I suppose at Dupont, he never left and if he did, someone was always home. So, several times he came home to a locked door and a girlfriend sound asleep - and of course his phone would be dead or not with him, so he would have no way to get inside. He learned to get my attention by throwing snowballs at the bedroom window. The first time he did this I was terrified and didn't realize that the sound of the snowballs was NOT coming from inside the house and NOT being made by a serial killer... Gllen tries to brush this off as romantic (me saving him from a cold night, etc.)

As I relate this to the neighbors, they give each other a questioning glance. I tell them that the last time he forgot his keys it was springtime, and there was no snow on the ground, so Gllen started throwing rocks and sticks at my window. Begrudgingly I got out of bed and let him in. This was nothing new by this time. Now, I wasn't even really think about it when a few days later the neighbors told me they were going to have our landlord install some security lights on the side of the house, because there had been a prowler in the yard over the weekend. I think my reaction was "Wow, that's scary!" It wasn't until two days later that I had the eureka moment and realized that, most likely, the prowler the were referring to was Gllen!

Immediately I went to Gllen and told him that we should tell the neighbors about his midnight tryst with the sticks and windows. He was mortified and begged me not to say anything to them as too much time had passed. I didn't quite agree with him, but I promised him I wouldn't bring it up out of the blue, but if the subject ever came up, I might casually mention that Gllen had been outside throwing sticks.

At this point in my telling of the story, the neighbors are saying things like "Oh my god!" and "What a relief!" Apparently, the experience with the prowler has given Anna nightmares ever since. She's constantly paranoid about it and the whole thing has become very well known in her circle of friends. She was so relieved to hear that it was only Gllen that she admitted she might actually start sleeping better.

At this point, I beg her to tell the story from her perspective, which makes me laugh now every time I think of it.

She had been lying in bed, not quite asleep when she saw a man walk by her window. When she started hearing noises (sticks and rocks) she looked out the window again she saw the man looking through the window at her. Terrified, she tried to quietly wake up her boyfriend, Kyle, to alert him to the prowler's presence. Being startled into wakefulness, he shouts. Anna sees the prowler take off running. They call the police. Within ten minutes, the police have arrived and are shining spot-lights into the yard and patrolling the block for suspicious people. The police never did find anyone...

Terror on Emerson Ave

It was late. Most of the houses on our street had long since turned out their lights, leaving the quiet streets of Emerson Ave barren and dark, except for the lonely glow of the street lamps. A slight breeze rustled the branches of the mulberry tree outside our window, scraping a single branch against the side of the house. Inside the house, the upstairs neighbors were silent, even the clicking of their dogs claws against the floorboards and long since ceased. It felt as if Gllen and I were the only people awake in the Lowry Hill neighborhood.

We were absent-mindedly playing poker in between commercial breaks of the tv program we were watching... slightly bored, but calm and content with life. Gllen was going all-in on every hand. Flip, flip, flip, flip... I dealt out the cards.

As Gllen was about to bet on his hand, we were startled by a misplaced sound emanating from the kitchen... a long and distinct "Fsssssssssssst". I bolted up in alertness and Gllen immediately silenced the tv. We stared toward the kitchen, unable to move. "What the hell was that?" I finally asked.

Gllen responded, "I have no idea." We both slowly rose from the couch, with cat-like tread approaching the kitchen. We halted at the archway, both of us uneasy. By unspoken need, we both reached for the others hand. We stood, alert for a minute, hands held tightly, surveying the kitchen. The sound was exactly the sound of meat sizzling in a hot pan. But no appliances were mistakenly left on. No food was left unattended.

I extracted my hand from his and told him with a lift of my chin, "Go look back there" indicating the darkened hallway to the bedroom. After a moment's hesitation and some unintelligible sounds that obviuosly meant "why me?", Gllen inched forward, gingerly walking across suddenly loud and squeaking floorboards. Cautiously he peered into the dark bathroom as I surveyed from a safe distance. He flicked the light on and nervously walked inside.

I was holding my breath until he came tip-toeing out and watched as he ventured towards the closed bedroom door. My breath caught in my throat as the door creaked open and he stuck his head in to check for the intruder we were both sure was lurking in there. Silence greeted us.

He walked back to the kitchen slowly, our eyes locked in mutual confusion. What had made that noise, we wordlessly questioned. We were about to resign ourselves to a sleepless night, alert for the unknown attack we both feared. Then Gllen paused by the kitchen sink. Staring at the dish drain, he asked, "could it have been this?" I slowly approached, and there in the sink were five cans of soda. The very cans that had survived the fatal accident that exploded five of their compatriots that afternoon. I had rinsed them all off and left them to dry in the sink. Sure enough, on closer inspection, one of the cans had succumbed to its fate and exploded in the dish drain, slowly fizzing out its life force.

Relief washed through me. "Of course!" I exclaimed. Popping open the lid of the can, I emptied the remaining soda down the drain and tossed it into the recycling. We both grinned at each other, feeling happy and carefree, and laughing at ourselves for standing in the kitchen, holding hands while terror reigned down on us. We will never survive an apocalypse.