Yesterday morning, I was startled by a hard knocking on my front door. I was in a t-shirt and boxers, but I cracked the door open to see. It was a woman from the sheriff's department. What the fuck had I done now, I wondered?
"Are you Henry Buschbaum?"
"Nope."
"Does Mr. Henry Bushbaum live her?"
"Nope."
"How long have you lived in this house?"
"Since about 1996, I think."
She looked through her papers for a minute and looked puzzled.
"Has he ever lived here?"
"Nope."
"I have a subpoena for him. He is supposed to be in court tomorrow."
I'd been getting mail from the state for a company that this man owned or was involved with, and I had sent a few of them back with "addressee unknown" written on the front. A couple. One, maybe. The rest. . . ? I don't know. I may still have them.
The server looked puzzled and left. How do these things happen? Somehow, though, I don't think I've heard the last about this. Hard knocks on the front door make me uneasy. People with "Sheriff's Department" on their shirt do, too. Imagine living in a country like Mexico or Peru or worse, anywhere in the Middle East. I'd be shitting myself all the time.
But this Henry Buschbaum character--why is he using my address? How has this happened? It is a little tiny bit like living in a Kafka novel. At least it presents the opportunity for such. Strange how little things like this can effect you and make you paranoid.
The two fellows on the bench were talking animatedly to a fellow on the bench across from them. They looked interesting while in motion. I sat down next to the fellow they were talking to and told them so.
"You two look like interesting fellows." I took a couple pictures.
Funny, though, how they don't look as interesting here at home.
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