Happy frickin’ Thursday, People. My boss has been a complete Assface today, so I’m a bit moody, but I shall bring you stories to brighten your day anyway. Due to popular demand, I have decided to bring you yet another story from Creepies Inc. To prove that the bizarreness of my life does not entirely transpire at my bookstore, I shall tell you a little story about a man I have dubbed Drunk Tom.
When I left my husband, I scrambled around desperately trying to find a place to live, so as not to infringe upon any of my friends. I happened to get a lease on an apartment in a building I lived in when I first moved away from home. I do believe every tennant that lived there was either on disability or social security. When I moved in, I was just happy to have a place of my own again, but this feeling quickly diminished when I realized the 3 apartments next to mine were occupied by 3 drunk lonely men. Now, I did not come to know this by osmosis, but by the most persistant of these 3 men, Drunk Tom.
The day I was moving in, a little man resembling Smoegol from Lord of the Rings was getting his mail and introduced himself as Tom. He informed me that if I ever needed anything, he was just down the hall. In my mind, I was thinking, “Why, isn’t that lovely? I have a friendly neighbor.” A few days later, a knock sounded on my door, and who could it be but my friendly neighbor Tom. Drunk. I opened my door slightly, and he burst on through when he saw my stacks of books everywhere.
“You are a freak!” He proclaimed.
“Yes, well, books are my thing.” I replied.
He then proceeded to light up a cigarette, in my apartment, in my non-smoking building, without asking.
“Dude, if you’re gonna smoke can you do it on the balcony?” I asked politely, even though at this point I was a bit annoyed that drunken near-stranger was standing in my home.
He immediately went to the sink and put out his smoke.
“I am SO sorry! I am such a fuckin’ idiot! You don’t want me here, do you? I am so sorry!” He was on the verge of tears and his head hung down in utter defeat. I immediately felt remorse for having spoken to him in a less than Emily-Post- like manner.
“It’s ok. Just smoke on the balcony, cuz I don’t smoke and I think the smell is kinda gross.”
He recovered quickly enough. “Oh! OK! You are so nice! I’m going to hug you!”
Before I had a chance to blink, this man whose head wasperfectly level with my busooms was squeezing the life outta me. After I extracated myself from his arduous embrace, I told him it was nice to chat, but I had to get to sleep. He left and I was slightly relieved.
For the next few weeks, EVERY DAY he was knocking at my door, asking if I wanted to have a beer, (which I don’t drink) or if I wanted to come over and listen to tunes, or whatever. I declined. From the conversations we had while I was standing at my door blocking his entry, I found out he liked to draw, he was a Vietnam vet, he took pills for an injury he sustained, and a 40 mixed with his pills gave him a good buzz. (That explained ALOT)
After realizing that this was just a lonely man who didn’t do much, one evening I desired to bake cookies, and since I only like eating them directly from the oven, I figured I’d jaunt down the hall and give a couple to Drunk Tom. When he answered my knock, he was so blissfully thankful for the cookies that he invited me in so he could show his appreciation by sharing a Coke with me. I thought, “What the hell.” As I stepped into the world of Drunk Tom, I felt as if I had entered one of those Hoarder episodes. His apartment was filled, literally to the ceiling, with crap. And many many drawing he had done were tacked up everywhere. He asked me to sit, which I did, gingerly on his stinky couch. After a few minutes of talking about art and drawing, he decided I was worthy to see his “special” art. He escorted me to his bedroom door, which I did NOT enter, and came face to face with dozens and dozens of drawings of women giving head. Now, I am all about sexually explicit art, (Frida Kahlo being my fave artist) but I was not expecting this.
“Okveryniceit’stimeformetogo.” I stuttered. Tom had to make sure to try to get a hug as I was walking out the door.
After that, Tom started sticking drawings of a more PG rated nature under my door.
A while later, caught me in the hallway as I was coming back from work. He apologized for an uncomfortableness he may have caused, and explained that he didn’t mean anything by showing me his drawings, but that “If I ever dumped that tall red-head, he’d be will to…” ( imagine here a hobbit-like man thrusting his hips at you in a very lascivious manner). As I attempted to keep from spewing my breakfast everywhere, Drunk Tom let me know he had something for me.
“I bet,” I thought, rolling my eyes.
“It’s just a little thing,” Tom said. Then he pulled out a little magnet with a picture on it. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at.
“I got a pretty cute ass for an old guy, don’t I?” Tom asked proudly.
There, in my hand, was a magnet of Drunk Tom posing like a Playboy girl with his ass staring me right in the face. I handed it back.
“No, that’s ok. It’s such a nice picture you’d better keep it, Tom.”
“But look!” He reached over and stuck it on my metal doorframe. “You could just stick it there and then you wouldn’t have to see it all the time, but when you go to work, then you can look and say ‘Hey! There’s Tom!'”
“Well, it really would be very distracting if I looked at that every day, Man.” I said, honestly. “You should keep it.”
This is the end of the story, but I will say that Tom was quite devoted about knocking on my door until I moved out. Though this post was written with a fictional vibe, all parties mentioned DO exist and there is no way I could make this shit up. XOXO
6 responses to “Creepies The Sequal: Drunk Tom”
Big muscles. Big glock.
Well I have no idea what to say. Speechless. Though you handled yourself well. People like him are the reason you keep baseball bats behind the door, which as John pointed out, also lock.
Well, he wasn’t exactly threatening. As I pointed out, he was hobbit-sized…locking the door didn’t really keep him from knocking.
Remember the old saying, “Behind every door is a new story” or, more loosley translated, “There’s a reason doors lock.”
Sorry to read that you are in a grumpy mood today, work folk can do that to you. Ive been in a depressed mood for ages now and the only thing keeping me sane and remotely happy are blogs, twitters, and podcasts.
Your stories are fascinating……You keep writing them and I know I shall keep reading them,. My mind is racing to try and come up with wierdos as powerful as yours to keep you entertained. So far im struggling but I shall get there
Honestly, I am quite good at entertaining myself, so don’t strain your brain. And BTW, I hardly believe these stories, and they happened TO me!