helter skelter, part 2
"The fear of burglars is not only the fear of being robbed, but also the fear of a sudden and unexpected clutch out of the darkness.”
I was driving to town earlier today and remembered another Helter Skelter story from my younger days. In about 1992, my roommate and I were house sitting for her parents in downtown Fairbanks. They have a cool, older house that's built part by part and has lots of character, along with nooks and crannies. It was a great place to stay, not only because it was a fun house to stay in, but the extended family and friends of my roommate and her brothers were always in and out as well so it was really like having a home.
One evening in February.... or should I say "One dark and cold Fairbanks evening?" (Which it was - but that might be overkill.) Anyhoo, one night I came home and walked into the kitchen and realized that I was the only one home. I walked upstairs to check the phone messages and, as I walked past the seldom-used living room, I smelled an awful smell. "That damn dog," I thought to myself as I walked by. My assumption was that the incredibly old, decrepit, but sweet dog had some sort of accident, which I mentally vowed to clean up later.
I checked the messages, heard that my roomie was house sitting at her aunt's down the street for a few days, and headed back down to the kitchen to call her. As we chatted on the phone, I saw a burgundy backpack on the settee that I didn't recognize. I mentioned it to Mary, who theorized that someone must have stopped by and then forgotten it. After we talked, I nonchalantly opened the pack, thinking that maybe I could figure out who left it and give 'em a call.
As I opened the backpack, I first removed an old and slightly dirty towel. Under the towel was a stocking cap and an almost empty bottle of Candian Hunter whiskey. At that point, I was a little perplexed. Most of our friends were students, and this didn't seem like standard student fare. I put down the backpack and called Mary back, "Do you think this is odd?" was basically what I asked.
She convinced me to check out the rest of the pack so I girded my loins and picked the pack back up. I reached into the pack again and pulled out a letter addressed to D**** T**** care of the Brother Francis Rescue Mission. (Although I clearly remember the name, I figure I'll protect the innocent.....). Okay, so at this point I realized that this pack didn't belong to our friends, or to any one I knew. The final item in the bottom of the backpack sealed the deal - it was a tattered copy of Helter Skelter, with pages dog eared as if they'd been marked.
At this point things started to click. This backpack didn't belong to a friend of ours; someone who gets mail at the Rescue Mission and reads about Charles Manson had been in our home and left his backpack. Then, I heard a noise from the living room. I started to yell at Mika when I realized she was sound asleep under the kitchen table, in the same room I was. That meant that something - or someone - else was in the living room. So I did what any sensible person would do - I grabbed my car keys and skedaddled out of there.
I got to Mary's a few door down and we called both the police, and her oldest brother. Then, we headed back to the house. When we got there, her brother's van was in the driveway and through the big kitchen window I could see him against the doorframe, holding a broken guitar neck like a club and preparing to leap into the living room in true action movie fashion. We watched him pounce, and then perform the same routine as he went up the stairs. At that point the police showed up and went in to investigate.
Our visitor had left before Robert or the police arrived, leaving his backpack, bottle and book but grabbing some ivory figurines on his way out. The police took my report; they knew the guy. He was a local vagrant, and the officer's theory was that he probably just went to pass out in the wrong house by mistake. The officer assured me he was harmless, and suggested that if he returned to look for his backpack, I offer him a beer and call 911 to come remove him.
Despite the assurances of the officer, I was a bit freaked out to realize that someone had come into the house I was living in, had stolen things, and violated the sacred space. Another friend offered to come stay with me until I was more comfortable. And the visitor never returned - that I know of.
Still, to this day when I think of the home intruder who violated our space, I also think of the book Helter Skelter. I also make the same connections to Canadian Hunter whiskey. In fact, I might go have a finger full right now.
I was driving to town earlier today and remembered another Helter Skelter story from my younger days. In about 1992, my roommate and I were house sitting for her parents in downtown Fairbanks. They have a cool, older house that's built part by part and has lots of character, along with nooks and crannies. It was a great place to stay, not only because it was a fun house to stay in, but the extended family and friends of my roommate and her brothers were always in and out as well so it was really like having a home.
One evening in February.... or should I say "One dark and cold Fairbanks evening?" (Which it was - but that might be overkill.) Anyhoo, one night I came home and walked into the kitchen and realized that I was the only one home. I walked upstairs to check the phone messages and, as I walked past the seldom-used living room, I smelled an awful smell. "That damn dog," I thought to myself as I walked by. My assumption was that the incredibly old, decrepit, but sweet dog had some sort of accident, which I mentally vowed to clean up later.
I checked the messages, heard that my roomie was house sitting at her aunt's down the street for a few days, and headed back down to the kitchen to call her. As we chatted on the phone, I saw a burgundy backpack on the settee that I didn't recognize. I mentioned it to Mary, who theorized that someone must have stopped by and then forgotten it. After we talked, I nonchalantly opened the pack, thinking that maybe I could figure out who left it and give 'em a call.
As I opened the backpack, I first removed an old and slightly dirty towel. Under the towel was a stocking cap and an almost empty bottle of Candian Hunter whiskey. At that point, I was a little perplexed. Most of our friends were students, and this didn't seem like standard student fare. I put down the backpack and called Mary back, "Do you think this is odd?" was basically what I asked.
She convinced me to check out the rest of the pack so I girded my loins and picked the pack back up. I reached into the pack again and pulled out a letter addressed to D**** T**** care of the Brother Francis Rescue Mission. (Although I clearly remember the name, I figure I'll protect the innocent.....). Okay, so at this point I realized that this pack didn't belong to our friends, or to any one I knew. The final item in the bottom of the backpack sealed the deal - it was a tattered copy of Helter Skelter, with pages dog eared as if they'd been marked.
At this point things started to click. This backpack didn't belong to a friend of ours; someone who gets mail at the Rescue Mission and reads about Charles Manson had been in our home and left his backpack. Then, I heard a noise from the living room. I started to yell at Mika when I realized she was sound asleep under the kitchen table, in the same room I was. That meant that something - or someone - else was in the living room. So I did what any sensible person would do - I grabbed my car keys and skedaddled out of there.
I got to Mary's a few door down and we called both the police, and her oldest brother. Then, we headed back to the house. When we got there, her brother's van was in the driveway and through the big kitchen window I could see him against the doorframe, holding a broken guitar neck like a club and preparing to leap into the living room in true action movie fashion. We watched him pounce, and then perform the same routine as he went up the stairs. At that point the police showed up and went in to investigate.
Our visitor had left before Robert or the police arrived, leaving his backpack, bottle and book but grabbing some ivory figurines on his way out. The police took my report; they knew the guy. He was a local vagrant, and the officer's theory was that he probably just went to pass out in the wrong house by mistake. The officer assured me he was harmless, and suggested that if he returned to look for his backpack, I offer him a beer and call 911 to come remove him.
Despite the assurances of the officer, I was a bit freaked out to realize that someone had come into the house I was living in, had stolen things, and violated the sacred space. Another friend offered to come stay with me until I was more comfortable. And the visitor never returned - that I know of.
Still, to this day when I think of the home intruder who violated our space, I also think of the book Helter Skelter. I also make the same connections to Canadian Hunter whiskey. In fact, I might go have a finger full right now.
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