One day a few weeks ago, I came home to some mail. Not so unusual, right? My mom said she'd opened it because she thought it was for her -- we're both Elizabeths -- and it was addressed to "Mrs. Elizabeth Cawein," which would without a doubt be her.
But it was not intended for her.
Oh, no. I'm the only one at that residence currently receiving mail from INMATES.
The guy's letter was two pages long, and it was clear from about the third sentence that he'd found my name in a story about the Memphis Music Foundation. How he found my parents' address, I'd prefer not to think about. He said he's a songwriter and a poet and he wants to get involved with the Memphis Music Foundation because he's getting out of prison in 60 days. After having been in for sixteen years. (I think now is the time we can safely assume this was not a minor shoplifting incident or a baseball-bat-meets-mailbox situation. Do you know how many times, in one of my murder stories, someone gets less time than that for chopping up their granny into tiny pieces and burying her behind the shed? TOO MANY TO THINK ABOUT.)
He went on and on about how he wants to get involved with music and how Memphis is the best place to do it and at the very end he signs his name and includes the following post script: "Please write back. My situation often scares people."
And y'all, my dumb ass liberal bleeding heart just broke into about twenty million pieces right there on my parents' kitchen floor. Someone please look after me when I get old, y'all. Please. I will need someone to stop me from sending checks to imprisoned African orphans or wire transferring money to my long-lost Swedish cousin Bjorn who needs my help to get out of extradition. That or adopting every abandoned puppy in the tri-state area and becoming a candidate for the show Animal Hoarders.
Needless to say, I did not write him back.
Fast forward about two weeks. I've just gotten back from BlogHer, I'm getting back into the groove of things. I'm at the gym for an early morning workout before I head to the office. It's worth noting that on this day I went to a different gym location than my usual, because I needed to hit up the grocery store to restock a few things I keep at work.
And that fact, the fact that I almost never go to this gym at this time of day, makes what I'm about to tell you EVEN creepier. I do my run, lift some weights, hit the showers and get myself together, and when I come back out to my car about an hour and a half later, I find a torn piece of paper tucked under my windshield. It reads:
"I think you are very sexy."
It is signed:
"The dark skinned muscular guy."
Y'all, I don't even know where to start on this one. I guess I'll just point out first off that this is, in fact, Memphis, Tennessee. Is this guy aware of how many "dark skinned muscular guys" are basically occupying the same space in that gym at any given time?
And after that little amusing tidbit I guess we can skip straight to the part where I am TOTALLY given the heebs (and also, the jeebs) by the idea that this guy knew which car was mine. I didn't remember anyone being in the parking lot when I pulled up or anyone walking in after me, but I could be wrong. It could be that simple. Right?
Capital heebs to the jeebs, y'all.
I have not gone back to that particular location for a morning workout again since then, but less because of my secret admirer and more because it's not my usual spot. In the event that I do return, I solemnly swear (to myself, and to you) not to invite further trouble by awkwardly staring down every "dark skinned muscular guy" in a futile attempt to decide if maybe I did remember seeing him that morning.
In other, much less creepy news? I started reading that Choose Your Own Adventure book again, if you know what I mean. So far? No snake pits. Or dead bodies! Want more?
Guess you'll just have to keep reading.
cheers,
elizabeth
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