By Kelly Mahan Jaramillo, Aug. 25th, 2007
About four or five years ago, we were living in a funky old house in inner Venice, California. This was just on the cusp of the whole area getting poodled up, and Venice is where I grew up. Then Julia Roberts moved in and the whole neighborhood went to hell.
I Digress, as usual.
I came home one day, and the whites of Tomas’s eyes were showing. This just never happens, and as any self preservation animal would do, I walked carefully towards him, my hand casually yet firmly holding the (imaginary) Glock .45 in my jacket pocket.
“Hi Honey!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. he rolled his eyes down at me.
He was looking at the answering machine as if it were the enemy.
Well, it was. It was four in the afternoon, who dies during traffic hour? I just didn’t understand his panic rising to the surface. We can always erase the day, right?
“It’s a director, I think,” he said. I was confused. Generally , when a director calls, it is a good thing.
He pressed play.
It was a thick Irish brogue.
All we could discern after hitting the repeat button about 45 times what that he liked Tomas’s music, and a phone number.
Now we both had slaughter-eyes.
We called the number. The message on the other end said,” I am not home. Come rob me.”
We looked at each other.
THIS sounded interesting.