Yesterday, we had to pick up our beloved Samsung DLP television from the home of a local man who had tried (unsuccessfully) to repair it. (That saga, in itself, is a long story — I’ll tell you about it later this week.)
When I called the gentleman to say I was coming for my television, he began giving me directions to his house.
“You go down Beasley. You know where that mini-storage is?”
“Um, no.”
“You know the one! It’s that mini-storage where that man got killed last week.”
“Ah, okay.”
“Then you go to that new gas station. You know about it?”
“No.”
“You know, it’s the one that gets robbed all the time.”
“Ah, okay.”
In the end, despite never getting a street address, I did find the place … but I didn’t go alone, and I didn’t linger.
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