Pedro ain't here, man....

"Pedro doesn't live here.  In fact, he hasn't lived here in the three years you've been coming and knocking on the door and asking for him.  I should know.  I've lived here for six [years]."

As a guest, I don't think that it's really my place to be opening the door of someone's home to total strangers, so to me the unfortunate task of bothering my gracious hosts as they try to lay down and sleep to answer the weird knock on the door.

They should really just be grateful that I didn't wake them up at 2:00 yesterday morning when the first few knocks on the door filtered in.

In fact, after geetting the bejeezus scared out of me, I lay in the darkness, debating.  My first thought was, "Where in the hell is the nearest sword?" In this particular household, it is not something which is out of the way to ask.  In fact, I'm more apt to lay my hands on a nice bastard sword or even a claymore before I can get to a 9mm. As my heart thudded in my chest in the cover of night, I rationalized two things.  If it were an emergency, like a fire, the firefighters would just kick the door in.  I wouldn't have to worry about it.  As long as they were streaks of yellow, I wouldn't have to bring the 'driver stick' across their skulls in a hurry (which, by the way, is a wonderful walking stick gifted to me by a dear friend who used to be a trucker...she carried this cane to protect herself when she was over the road.  It is magnificently topped with a skeletal hand which clutches a red glass orb).  If they were dressed for mischief, the 'driver-be-good-stick' was the handiest thing I had.

If it was someone who was supposed to be able to enter, they'd have a key, nullifying the necessity of having to even knock in the first place.  

Quietly, the knocking went away.

But as you can see, it didn't happen this evening and I get to see my friends wandering around in fluffy white bath robes.

(Maybe I should just get them some pink fuzzy slippers to match.)

The story goes that there is a woman who gets to the point of tying one on (whether it is drugs or just alcohol is unknown) and the woman has come up at all hours of the night, knocked on the door, and even made circles around the house, screaming up for 'Pedro' to come down.  This has happened on and off for the past three years.

I have a lot of questions for this insane woman.  Firstly, how can you get so shitty-faced-messed-up as to forget that someone hasn't lived in a place for years?  It has got to be drugs, because even at my worst alcohol binges, I might have all the attention span of a regal blue tang (Dory!), but I have faith that I would remember someone moved away over three years ago.

Really, I wish she would have been all crazy and shit.  It's been a while since I've gotten to call the cops on someone for displaying their ass in public.

For now, as long as the storyline stops there, we'll be doing good.