Heroin girl needed a coffee table, badly.
I was doing it for the cats. She was going out of town and her regular cat sitter fell through. The grouchy cat wasn't having any of me trying to feed it, and the friendly one looked like it was losing a lot of weight so I got worried. They were supposed to be from the same litter. I mentally noted to let her know when she got back.
No, basically, I was doing it for her tits. Because, Jesus, she had some amazing tits. She was a ditz I met in our neighborhood bar, and I swear to god, they had that perfect tubby yet firm quality that made your cock jump at every jiggle. And Jesus Christ, did they jiggle.
Took me two days to clean her apartment until I could even see that she was missing a coffee table. She had a couch, a TV, and used a milk crate as a makeshift table for her ashtray and assorted crap. Turns out she was a hoarder, and I didn't know what I was getting into when I agreed to watch her cats.
After the initial shock of seeing the inside of her apartment wore off, I figured I should walk to the store and get a bunch of gloves and trash bags, so I did, and then I dug in. After a few hours of cleaning, I burned my hands on her electric stove. Apparently, she left a few burners on in the low setting months back and didn't realize it, burying it in garbage. Jesus.
There were fast food containers and bags everywhere - on the floorboard, in the couch cushions. She had at least 30 pairs of shoes but no two were alike near each other until you spent some hours sorting. I knew that for a fact. This was a disaster zone and I was taking a clinical approach to it out of sincere pity. Pervert me would've been trying to sniff her panties. Real me was picking up unsavory glass vials off the floor very carefully and making sure her cats had room to walk in.
She knew she was hot shit and she acted like it, currying favors with a smile. All the same, she was genuinely nice. I knew she was an addict of some kind - meth maybe. She admitted to selling her excess Adderall and naive me didn't even know people snorted it prior to meeting her. But the glass vials in Baltimore meant heroin. At least she was only snorting it, because I didn't find any needles.
After the second day, the apartment was decently clean. Couple of hanging organizers ensured all her shoes were pairs after all. Most of them were worn to the nubs, but still sexy. Fifteen full contractor-size garbage bags waited for pickup outside. Her clothes were washed, unmolested, and I had a crisis of conscience.
Yes, I did it because I thought she was hot. I mean, Jesus, her tits. The friendly blonde bimbo with those knockers could manipulate anyone into anything. But she had real problems, inner demons. One night last month we hung out and she had crossed over into inappropriate land, which I enjoyed very much, all three seconds and two handfuls of.
Then she got distracted and wanted to watch cartoons. The girl had real problems and I didn't want to take advantage.
The cats now had some room to walk through and it occurred to me that she could really use an actual coffee table. The milk crate landed in the recycling pile on the curbside, few doors down so she didn't get fined for waste misuse. Petting the skinny good cat, I pulled up my phone and opened craigslist.
Ten miles away, near Towson, there was a nice wooden coffee table with decorative carvings and shit. I didn't have a sense of taste, but I figured she'd appreciate something nice like this. I wrote to the seller and offered $40 cash, undercutting the price by a little. She responded favorably and I told her I'd like to pick it up tomorrow around 4 PM. She was OK with that.
The next day, I snuck out of work early and drove to the listed address. Well, I like to overprepare so I showed up 20 minutes too early and parked curbside. This was an economically mixed neighborhood, working class and the poor, and I started getting stares quickly. Within ten minutes an old black lady came out and interrogated me for being there. I explained I was waiting for a sale, and she just wouldn't drop it. She kept asking me all these questions.
Then, to my complete surprise, turns out she didn't live there. She was visiting her sister. What the fuck, lady?
Clock rolled over to 4 and I got out and walked to the door. Even though I was parked there for a while, I got confused as to where her place was. At 4:05 I rang her doorbell and waited.
No one responded.
Few minutes later, I tried again. And waited some more. Trying the doorbell yet again, I started getting tired of standing. Just then I heard a voice behind me.
"Who you lookin' for?"
It was the old black lady from earlier. I explained to her I was buying a table. She nodded but stared at me in disbelief, so I asked her if she knew the woman who lived at the house.
"No, who she?"
Jesus fucking christ. Not only did she not live here, she didn't know anyone. And now she was butting into things she couldn't possibly help with.
"She's probably just late, I'll give her a call. Thanks!" I said, and walked back to my car.
Once I sat in the driver's seat, I called the phone number listed in the ad and waited. The old black woman walked back to her sister's house, I believe, and just stared at me as if I was a burglar before finally walking inside.
"Hello?" I heard over the phone.
"Oh, hi, I'm calling about the coffee table you're selling," I replied.
"Right, so there are some scratches," she responded.
At that point I was confused. We already went over that yesterday.
"Uh, right, you told me," I explained and added, "I'm at your place but no one is answering the doorbell."
"You're at my place?" she asked.
"Uh, yeah. I mean I thought we agreed to 4 o'clock. Do you need to reschedule? Are you still interested in selling the table?"
She was silent for a few moments.
"No, no, it's fine, I'm just on my way home. Be there shortly."
