A friend came over to hang out over coffee this morning. (The joys of having Mondays off and friends still in college.) We decided to go out on a walk after finishing the coffee since this weekend is the first really decent weather we’ve had this year. We started down the sidewalk and noticed that Upstairs Dweller’s truck had its lights on. (This is that ancient, two-tone Ford .) Upstairs Dweller was nowhere in sight, so we checked to see if we could turn the lights off ourselves (or he’d be stuck this afternoon with a dead battery). As my friend leaned into the truck to check for the headlights switch, she noticed something odd laying in the truck bed and jumped back, hanging onto me for dear life: A dead coyote. At least we’re pretty sure that’s what it was. Why in the world Upstairs Dweller has a dead coyote laying in the back of his truck…. I haven’t a clue.

I came home from work this evening, carefully inching my way up the main street so as to avoid sliding on the new-fallen snow and crashing into the sidewalk. I gingerly stepped one foot at a time along the sidewalk at home to get to my mailbox. I saw a double-bed mattress sitting on the front porch. Somebody, please explain to me what UD*  is doing with a mattress… oh, and a bed frame… on the front porch. They’re not even set up so you can sit on them. At least then I might postulate that someone decided to experiment with living in the cool weather that Eskimos experience. Instead, the mattress is leaning up against one of the porch posts. Also, the mattress is covered in flowers, as if it were the mattress my grandmother picked out to match the wallpaper. A lovely winter view for my front window, but not exactly your typical masculine print. All I can surmise is that it was acquired secondhand. And if they remain there much longer – accompanied, in fact, by a strange statio...

Upstairs Dweller, a guy, usually works second shift. But for the last two days he’s actually been around here in the evening. Don’t ask me why; I haven’t a clue. And tonight, as I was gleefully pecking away at my keyboard, UD did a few strange things. He jingled his keys around upstairs. (OK, not so strange.) He came downstairs and flicked the porch light on and off a couple times. Click, click, click. (We have really loud old-fashioned light switches. They’re push-button style.) He went back into the foyer and clicked a light in there on and off a few times. Click, click, click. And only then does go back upstairs (to fetch his forgotten keys?) and then back downstairs to start up the truck. Which didn’t catch the first time. Squeeeeak goes a belt. It’s an ancient, two-tone Ford, I think, so I’m not surprised at the noises it makes. The ones produced by the Ford’s owner, however…

Two or three guys enter the hall to the upstairs apartment. I, the innocent little downstairs-dweller, am sitting here. This is what I hear through the thin wall. “That smells like poop.” Some rustling. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Keys unlock the upstairs door. Sniff, grunt, mumble. (What, are they drunk or something? It’s too early.) “Yeah, that’s what Brian’s like…” and some strange groaning. Laughter. Dragging some sort of tarp-sounding thing upstairs. A chime or something. Singing. Yes, singing. More speech I can’t make out. A large burp. Whistling. And it’s not me. Talking. “Huh?” No response. “What? Where’d he go? There it is.” “Yep, it’s still there.” More tarp rustling. Mumbling. “No they’re not.” Mumbling. “Huh?” More mumbling. These guys have communication problems. I think I hear a TV or something. Singing… Speech. “Whoa, juice!” (Well, that’s what it sounded like.) ---------------------- No joke. I really did hear that in the last three minutes. I...