Encounter with a Serial Killer

Sipping a warm Starbucks caffe mocha through a straw, Mike pulled up to the check-in station at his storage building. It was February, but the weather was muggy in Dallas, Texas, and he felt as though winter had cheated him again and it was now becoming prematurely spring. Today was oddly damp without any memory of overt rain--just foggy gray and overcast with a sudden materialization of moisture on every exposed surface. The foggy night had enveloped this damp conditionand the light now bounced wildly from ubiquitous points , most interestingly the grease slicks on the road when it caught the leaning streetlights on Forest Lane at just the proper angle.
Mike rolled down his window to enter the security passcode into the keypad. There was something frustrating about the way this whole complex was operated, as though a passive-aggresive personality had put it together just to take revenge out on the customers. Multi-color paint-streaked concrete pylons almost ensured that he had to get out of his black SUV just because he didn't want to risk scraping his door against them to get close enough to the recessed keypad. Then the chain would creak wearily and slowly reel the gate along the thin track. The loud squeaking made him think of a hamster wheel, and Mike laughed to think of a giant hamster spinning a wheel to move the rickety gate, and he wondered if he was the only one in the world to ever think of that. Even if someone is goes into the property in front of you, you still have to stop and enter your code, or you can't exit the property--you have to get out of your car and exit through a small gate, seemingly built for just this purpose, enter the code, and then come back in to re-enter the code to exit. This asinine procedure must have frustrated more than one visitor, as a note was scrawled hastily on a piece of paper--carved onto a piece of white paper with a thick, black magic marker, sealed in plastic, and hung by the latch: "Do NOT Slam Gate!"

"Hang on a second...I'm entering my damn code. I don't know why I need 12 fucking digits for this place." The giant hamster started to run. Mike glanced up at the manager's door and noticed a sign that read "Will return at:" With a clock set to 9:00. It was the third time he had been to the property today, and the sign had been up each time--again, irritating because he had business with the managers. Anna never seemed to be out of the office-she must be taking a day off or something.

The managers lived on the property, and were husband and wife. Mike had dealt mostly with Anna, the wife. She was a stickler for every rule to an irritating extent. Mike had first become annoyed at her when he signed up several months before. When he brought the paperwork in, he brought his very well mannered 5 year old boy in his Tae Kwon Do uniform. It struck him as strange that, though they were the only two people in the office, the manager looked the child over but didn't address him or refer to him. That is very odd behavior, he thought, usually people would say something to a child... But she hadn't--instead, she just coldly held her hand out for the check for the down payment, and then told him that she didn't like foam peanuts floating around the parking lot, so be careful about it. And she meant it, too. One time, while he was unloading equipment into his air conditioned storage building, he was startled to look up to see Anna with her broom and dustpan, vigorously yet silently sweeping up freshly spilled styrofoam packaging material from the front of his storage unit. "What does she have, radar or something?" thought Mike, a little embarrassed but then resentful at the boldness and confrontational attitude--as though she was trying to punish him by shaming him to his face.

And then there was the time that he was locked out because his check had not arrived on time. He was traveling for 10 days and had paid on-line, only to find out that the check was delayed in the mail. Even though it was a check issued by his bank, dated several days before, and even though it was postmarked certainly in time to be received before the due date, she had cancelled his code, put a manager's lock on his unit, and had forced him to come in and pay the $10 late fee before allowing him back into his unit. Simultaneously enraged and embarassed, Mike thought to himself that he was perhaps a little defensive that she thought he didn't have the 50 bucks for rent. Having been poor in the past, he was always defensive about the perception that he might not have enough money at any time. Maybe that's why he always assumed the responsibility to pick up the check at dinner--it takes trust in others to let them pay your way. That, and enough self-confidence to not reflect too deeply on what the other person thinks. "My company is worth it" Mike could tell himself and try to convince himself that it was true. But there was always a lingering doubt.

A little time had given him perspective on having been locked out: "What a bunch of assholes!" he thought to himself when he remembered the situation earlier today. This month, he had forgotten the date and, yesterday, had paid on the very last day that payment was due--by the time he went to drop off his check the business office had closed, and a sign on the window of the office read "Don't Forget to Add your $10 Late Fee". He didn't add it, but wondered if they considered his payment late since it was paid after business hours. He clenched his teeth the next day when driving up to the office to make sure he wasn't locked out. He came by twice, but both times the office was closed--again, that was odd, but he had other things to do and quickly forgot about it.

Tonight he made his way across the gate with a sigh of relief that the gate had opened. They must put that sign out to sucker some people into paying the late fee, he mused. I guess if someone drops it off in the morning, they do owe the fee. In his poor college days, Mike had played that game with his apartment rent, waiting until the last possible day of grace to get the check to the business office--but those days were long ago...

As he drove across the puddles in the parking lot toward the last building on the lot, it struck him that he was all alone and that tonight felt particularly dark and deserted. He had needed to do this errand, but had chosen a time where it would get him out of the bustling mayhem that was going on without him at home. It was a stressful time of day, and he just needed a break. And then there was the trouble at work...

"Listen, man, I'm about to call Lloyd and chew his ass out. I'm not putting up with that shit from him anymore. I feel like I've been taking one for the team here, and not stirring up trouble, but that's about to end!"

A voice on the other end expressed concern.

"Don't worry, I'm about to settle this. Talk to you later. Okay, bye"

As he pulled around the corner, Mike pulled up to the entrance to the building. Stopping his SUV and getting out, his contact lenses immediately fogged up from the moisture in the air combined with eyes tired from focusing all day. He stuffed his cell phone into his jacket pocket and went to the back of the vehicle and quickly popped the rear door open. He needed to unload all of the equipment he was carrying so he could head home and finish his chores for the night.

Suddenly, something gave him a chill up his spine. He looked up quickly and saw a shadow at the end of the row of buildings casually disappear into the corner about 200 yards away. Between his fogged contacts and the dim yellow light oozing over the end of the driveway, which was visible but not necessarily illuminating, Mike couldn't make anything out. As he turned to go into the building to get a cart, he had a sudden flash of memory that made him realize that he was very possibly in a great deal of danger....

Okay, I need feedback or I'm not finishing this story! By the way, this is a true representation of an event that happened last Friday night.

I realized that my writing up to this point has been pretty low risk--either in Journal form or 1st person. Those are both hard to criticize. A good thing about having a close brother is that you can corner him and make him tell you what he really thinks--and Don told me "You have excellent grammar", which, to me, is the equivalent of saying "better than receiving an enema, but not much better...". So I'm trying out 3rd person and a more dramatic writing style.

Thanks, everyone!