In the mid 1990s I was a busy little decorative painter. People would call me up and I would go to their homes for a consultation. The phone rang constantly. So when a guy named Kris called, I didn't think much of it. In fact, I thought it was my brother-in-law, who is also named Kris. It even sounded like him. But when the conversation turned to decorative painting and setting up a consultation I realized it wasn't my brother-in-law at all but a potential client. Up to this point in my career I was still painting for single men so I agreed to meet him.
The majority of my painting jobs were in the south west suburbs of Minneapolis so when Kris told me his address I thought, "oh good, a new neighborhood to conquer". He lived in Coon Rapids, an area I was not at all familiar with. Pulling into Kris's neighborhood I started to get a little concerned. The houses didn't look like the ones I was used to working in. In fact when I pulled into his driveway I called my husband and told him where I was... just in case. I even left the keys in the ignition of my car, but then thought it might be stolen in the 5 minutes I planned to waste on this appointment, so I threw them on the floor.
The person who met me at the door was a zombie like man in his late twenties, about 5'10" and weighed approximately 180 lbs, I remember that because it's the description I gave to the cops later that day. He was wearing an enormous amount of clothing including a huge flannel shirt, which I thought was strange because the weather was really nice. Walking into the house I knew there was no way I would be working in it. And when he locked the dead bolt behind me, I started to worry a little more about the safety of my car. I thought, "this must really be a crap neighborhood." I was only slightly more worried about my own safety.
I looked around the house and noticed framed photos of a woman and a small child so naturally I thought, "oh good, he's married with a baby. He can't be that weird, can he?" But for all I know those photos came with the frame because as it turns out, he was that weird, and worse.
I began rattling off painting ideas and showing him my book even though I knew it was pointless. His responses were disconnected and irrelevant to the content of the conversation. He started asking me questions about what I liked to do for fun in a tone that made my skin crawl. "Do you like to dance?", he asked. That was my que to get the heck out. As I gathered my portfolio and paint sample deck, I turned my back to him to put the items in my bag. I was shaking by this point because of the strange turn of the conversation and my stuff was being very stubborn. It felt like it took hours to get it in the bag. All the while I could hear a strange rustling behind me.
He was talking during this time about how he found my number in the phone book and how he thought I had a nice name, that's why he called. He was also sharing with me what he like to do for fun in his spare time. Spare time? It was 11:00 am in the middle of the week, he obviously had a lot of spare time. Anyway, I turned to hastily make my way to the door and the reason for the rustling and the large flannel shirt revealed itself. The weirdo had removed his clothing! You ask, "was he naked?" Thankfully, no. He was wearing a full body leotard and tutu! A nice woody brown, no less. "I like to dance too" he said.
The look on my face must have been one of shear horror as I croaked out, "Um, that's nice. Gotta go." Thank God I remembered the dead bolt, and double thank God that I left the keys on the floor of the car, because I never would have found them in my flustered state. I was so shaken that I got lost trying to drive out of the neighborhood.
I called my husband when I left and told him about it. He asked me if I wanted him to go and kick the weirdos ass. I just chuckled because that is so unlike him and probably because I was so happy to be out of that weird house. He suggested that I call the Coon Rapids police so I did. Although I wasn't harmed in any way, I thought it was important to inform them that they had a tutu wearing zombie living across the street from the local grade school.
Would you believe the cops laughed? They thought it was an amusing story. (Oh, I amuse you?) I got called four times that day by different officers asking me to repeat myself. A couple of people I didn't tell were my parents. I didn't want to worry them, until about five years later when I could laugh about it.
This is something I used to think about almost every time I get a call for painting, especially if the caller is a guy. I hate to profile, in fact I'm not even sure it's legal. But I have had too many strange experiences to trust anymore.
So, word to the wise... if a guy answers the door and you think he looks like an over dressed zombie, leave! With no apologies. Another word, if a guy answers the door wearing only his bathrobe, leave! You never know when that thing will just accidentally fall open. Make no apologies. And my final word of advise, if a guy starts to talk to you about his teenage daughter having sex in the hot tub out back but you're already half way through your painting job, finish, collect the check and never go back.
Be safe! Don't worry about hurting anyone's feelings. You never know whats hiding under those huge flannel shirts.
No comments:
Post a Comment