Gotcha! Here’s the Tat on the scooter again. I had to shoo her away and make that trip for Dave-O’s new battery. Here is a strange tale to tell. That electric bicycle I bought in December is gone. I bought it at a yard sale up near Sheridan, and began to suspect it was hot when I found the only place I could find parts was up in Canada (until the store opened on Harrison).
This morning, a Frenchie came to the door with a bill of sale, and his serial number matched. Thus, I knew it was once his bicycle—but he had not reported it stolen. Big mistake, because I also had a bill of sale. Worse, he admitted to seeing the bicycle stolen by a black, and that isn’t me (for those who have noticed).[Author's note 2016-03-02: this explanation is not clear. What happened is I checked on-line to see if the bicycle was stolen before I bought it. No, it had not been reported stolen. So I paid $40 for it.
Some years later, the Frenchie sees it in my back yard and only then threatens to report it stolen if I don't hand it back. Don't worry, I got him back many times over.
Remember the bums that were caught living in one of the units while the owner was gone? I saw them, and never reported it, because I knew they were not must squatting, they were trashing the place. Guess who's house it was? C'mon, guess.]
However, he wanted it back and I thought it over. He kept saying I got “screwed” and I avoided the temptation to tell him he was the loser. Still, that is why bicycles have serial numbers and he kept saying he would call the police if I didn’t give it back, thus implying I stole it, which didn’t rest well with me.
I told him I wanted a reward of half what I paid for it, since the bicycle was officially missing, not stolen. In the end, I told him to take his bicycle and never ask me for anything again. I am well-known in the area for helping people and lending tools. Word will get around how ungrateful he was.
I’ve finished the novel “Murder in Spokane”. I remember this case because the Spokane police totally messed up the investigation, allowing some 18 more prostitutes to be killed. He was shooting them in the back of the head with a .22 pistol at the moment they were most distracted. Yet the police did not follow up the clues for something like ten years, and it turns out they had the guy’s name, license, occupation, address and eyewitness accounts of his distinctive white Corvette. Only in Spokane.
Nor will I publish the list of characters, as the book was written by a retired cop so most of the names are mentioned only once and are incidental to the plot. Who really cares about the name of victim’s ex-husbands unless they are suspects? Spokane is a weird city, owned by two or three families not likely to consider it a bad thing when hookers turn up dead on the east side of Sprague.
Years ago I knew my prescriptions were to cover the bases (they were not sure what was wrong, so gave me everything), but over time they have become well-tuned to my unique situation. It seems that balance, mainly blood pressure and cholesterol, was determined by trial and error but my taste and appetite for things like coffee has returned. Over the past year, I mean. I drank six cups today (decaf, in case you wonder, and yes, decaf does contain residual caffeine). Shay dropped by today to visit, he’s going partners on a pool maintenance business, apparently an established concern. He’ll be back. He forgot all his beer in the fridge. Coors Light. Shay eventually left town without notice.
Shay sings in a heavy metal band. If he ever does covers, I told him I’ll make him a star. He plays guitar, but tuned to an open E and somewhere between stereo-typed and repetitious, but he says he can learn way better styles. I’ve got a lot more photos of this and the past few weeks and you’ll get them as soon as I figure out how to get them off my cell phone. (You e-mail them to yourself for a fee. No, this process is not intuitive to everyone.)
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