Friday, December 17, 2004

911 What's Your Emergency?

911 What's Your Emergency?

To: Rahat Ahmed - Analyst, Prince Street Capital Management
Address: rahata@prince****.com
Re: Last night

I know we don't know each other, unless you count when you all but slammed the front door on my face before leaving for work yesterday morning (didn't anyone tell you to hold the door for a lady?), so you can imagine my surprise at our encounter last evening.

It was just after 3 AM and I had awoken to the sound of pennies, dimes, and nickels being slid under my door every so often. I was cofused at first as I came out of my slumber and got nervous there might be some sort of rodent that had appeared in thick of the night in my apartment. So thank you for letting me know this wasn't the case when you decided to use your credit cards to try and jimmy my locks. I had to know that mice aren't that resourceful. But yet, even bound with such knowledge, I still sat in my bed trying to make sense of the night around me. My trusty hammer that I like to keep close for such occasions was nowhere to be found. I especially enjoyed running around my apartment naked unable to see trying to locate something with the proper density with which to crack your skull open should it come to blows. I'm already aware that we are not yet acquainted at this point and you must not read my blog or else you would be familiar with my already present and numbing fear of an intruder raping me. Your little game of cat and mouse was really on par. It is rare that one is able to say they shit their (non-existant) pants out of fright in the wee hours of the morning, but I can say just that when you began piledriving into my door. Thanks for that.

In the past I have been apprehensive to dial up the men in blue, but I thought this time might be the end of the line for me and quickly got on the horn to 911. I'm not sure how much any of this has to do with the marathon of CSI's I watch before bed each night, probably none, right? The lady on the other end seemed to know what she was doing, although at first she thought we were in some place called "Monroe", but we got past that. I'm pretty sure she's done this before. We established my address and number and the nature of the problem and it was at that point... you spoke.

Your method of buttering me up was just short of spectacular. Each time you called me "baby" and appealed that I let you in, I was closer and closer to making eye contact out that peephole. The 911 lady wanted in on the action, wanted to know if you were black or hispanic (a little presumptious on her part, but all the same). We encountered some difficulties with reception, for the 911 lady to hear me I had to be far away from the door, but I didn't want to miss a second of your sweet nothings. You pleaded that I open the door and it wasn't until I shouted "go away, dildo" that you began to sob. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You whined through your tears "it's me baby, let me in, it's Rahat"... he has a name. "I live here, why won't you let me in?" "My hands are all cut up, baby". I could sense you were confused, but yet, it was clear you thought I was the confused one. You wanted me to understand and it was with great foresight that you slid your business card under the door. That'll come in handy this weekend, my love.

Eventually you whimpered away and the police arrived. I noticed as I walked out into the hallway (this time robed) with a pungent smell as if it was a Listerine botteling plant since the early 80's that the 6'3" plain clothes policeman was all business. He in his black trench coat with the sleeves schunched up to the elbows and his little pony tail was just as dashing as Crocket, or was it Tubbs? It was with good sense that he used your keys and let you in and left you a piece of advice in the form of "clean up your apartment." I've never felt more safe.

Our night soon came to an end and I stepped back to my abode and collected the miscellaneous items you had left on my door step like a mini-shrine. Two buttons, one business card, a wadded up dollar bill and just inside about $1.84 in change. Thank you Rahat. Thank you for your contribution to the Kiki Defense Fund. Be expecting my call this weekend.

21 Comments:

Blogger Jimmy said...

Wow. Crumpled up dollar bills and $1.84 in pennies, nickels, and dimes. Classy. Sounds like my tips at the local gentlemen's club where I too am told to "go away, dildo" by naked women and end up sobbing.
Great story, though.

December 17, 2004 at 11:05 AM  
Blogger tennesseewhiskey said...

Kiki and Rara. I hear wedding bells.

December 17, 2004 at 11:25 AM  
Blogger Kiki said...

A girl can dream...

December 17, 2004 at 11:37 AM  
Blogger Bernie said...

I am a bit confused. What was the deal with the bloody hands?

December 17, 2004 at 2:25 PM  
Blogger Kiki said...

I haven't a clue, but I plan on finding out tonight when I drunk dial him every 5 minutes...

December 17, 2004 at 2:39 PM  
Blogger Manhattan Transfer said...

Holy shit.


Also, holy shit.

May the father, son, the holy spirit, the virgin mary and all the saints preserve me from ever being so drunk I try to break into the wrong apartment.

Also, the hammer by the bed thing is pretty hot.

December 17, 2004 at 3:00 PM  
Blogger Kiki said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

December 17, 2004 at 3:24 PM  
Blogger Bernie said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

December 17, 2004 at 3:35 PM  
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