I was chillin' with my little boys on the couch, watching the most bizarre childrens show in the universe, when my doorbell rang. The townhouse we rent has a doorbell that you answer by picking up a videophone; you see who's there, then you can buzz them in. I wasn't expecting anyone, but ocassionally Australia Post comes in the late afternoon, whatever.
Dude: "Yeah, I'm the guy who rang your doorbell last year. I left something in the garage attic and I need to come in and get it."
Holy shit! This is the prior occupant of our house, who tried to break in a year ago to get the "stuff" he left in here.
Me: "Sorry, I can't help you".
Dude: "I need to come in now."
Me: "I'm calling the police, I'd recommend you leave now."
Last year the police officer gave us a business card to call should Jeremy show up here again. Being that the card was in a drawer somewhere I called 000 (that's Australian for 911).
An hour and a half later they showed up, an hour and a half... what the hell? I guess it's a good thing Jeremy didn't try coming in a door or window like last time.
The officer was a condescending jackass.
Our unproductive conversation included exchanges such as:
Him: Do you know this guy?
Me: Yes, he did this exact same thing a year ago last month.
Him: I'm not talking about a year ago, I'm talking about today.
Me: But, you asked if I knew him.
His brilliant advice to me was: use an alarm, keep your doors locked, never let a stranger in. Duh, thanks.
I'm still shaking with post-traumatic situation adrenaline.
I think it's time for tequila or something stronger.