It was the stormy evening of July 7th, 2010. Somewhere in the dark recesses of Knoxville, Tennessee, several men of dubious character dressed in pinstriped suits had convened in a small, dark room. With the exception of the creaking sound made by a low hanging ceiling lamp swaying to and fro, all was silent. The dim lamp emitted only enough light to illuminate the pale physiognomies of all constituents in attendance. Thick smoke from Cuban cigars rose slowly from ash trays, further obscuring these faces to a degree which rendered them almost unrecognizable. Scarcely had they all sat down, when the man whose arrival they were awaiting rapped upon the door.
"Hark! It is he!", whispered one of the voices.
The door creaked on its hinges as it was opened, and the light from outside briefly revealed the countenances of all - some ghastly, some nervous, some impassive. The man entered with a firm step, said not a word, and carried in his hand a leather-bound suitcase. The door shut behind him, once again shrouding the physiognomies of all with shadows. The man sat down at the table in what appeared to be a seat reserved for him, a seat which was adjacent to a mysterious lady whom, judging from the almost imperceptible glance exchanged between them, he seemed to be acquainted with. The suitcase was opened, its contents displayed to the satisfaction of all, and closed again, drawing nods of assent from all in attendance. At last, the silence was broken. The two parties then began the negotiations, funneling all concerns through an unbiased arbitrator who sat in the middle of the dark room. Questions were raised. Answers were returned. Stipulations were made. And at last, a mutual agreement was reached. Papers were circulated around the table, which, after going full circle, were returned stamped, signed, and sealed in blood-colored ink. These papers, which held all the markings of an official document, and a set of keys were then exchanged for the mysterious contents of the suitcase. All constituents appeared pleased, and one-by-one trickled out of the room just as they had trickled in. The mysterious transaction was complete and its participants scattered like cockroaches.
Bustlin' beetles, Erik! Were you the man with the suitcase?
I must confess. I was. And, I will also confess to you the following: the above scene loosely describes one of the most memorable days of my summer thus far. It marked the day that I officially became a "Knoxvillian", acquiring the deed to a little piece of that sacred American soil in which I intend to reside for the next 3 years, maybe more.
And, pray tell me, who was the mysterious lady?
Ah, yes. That lady was none other than a certain Tiffany Gomez, a sagacious realtor in the Knoxville area whom I would heartily recommend to any good fellow looking to procure a piece of Knoxville soil. I found Mrs. Gomez to exhibit all the traits of someone successful in her profession - helpful, personable, armed with a vast knowledgeable of the local area, and not to mention, eminently magnanimous. For example, upon discovering that my iPod had recently met its fateful demise in the washing machine, she generously bestowed upon me an Apple giftcard at the conclusion of our meeting.
Bravo! Let us drink to the health of Mrs. Gomez, and may her generosity return to her ten-fold!
Yes, and may she live for a thousand years! Immediately following the conclusion of this meeting, a certain Northern Excursion demanded my full attention and precluded me from setting foot in Knoxville again until a later date - July 19th, a day of infamy.
Infamy? One would've presumed that the locals would've welcomed you with open arms!
Alas, as they say, the friends of today are the enemies of tomorrow. Upon re-entering the city limits of Knoxville, I couldn't believe my eyes. On the horizon, there seemed to be a large assembly of people blockading the road. Apparently, in my absence, word had quickly spread throughout the city of my intentions to move in, and for whatever reason, had fanned the smoldering anger of the local citizens. My suspicions were confirmed as I drew nearer. Indeed, a myriad of people had gathered and were angrily shouting slogans and waving placards such as:
A fusillade of vegetables - avocados, tomatoes, potatoes - were thereby hurled at me, pounding against my car, and the crowd converged on me; not in a civil manner, but in a manner in which a pack of ravenous jackals might have converged on a stray gazelle.Alas! And, it was thus Heaven recompensed virtue? Pity!
To the best of my fallible ability, I narrowly evaded their clutches and, arriving home, I rushed inside and feverishly dead-bolted the door. The house, or condominium rather, was completely empty - devoid of any furnishings. No bed. No sofa. No food. And, not having had sufficient time to contact the utilities company, not even electricity or running water. Wearied and fatigued from my journey, I spread a sleeping bag on the bare floor and laid myself down. Alone, in the solitude of the dark home, as nature's orchestra of frogs croaking and cicadas buzzing (or, whatever cicadas do) could be heard from outside, the imagination ran wild with a single question: "What am I to do?"
But, isn't it true, good friend, that things which in the evening look dark and obscure appear but too clearly in the light of the morning?
Again, you are correct, my perspicacious interlocutor. And, it was on the very morning of July 20th when, like a lightning bolt, it dawned on me what must be done. There was only one option. Like the taming of a wild beast, the citizens of Knoxville, or "K-town" as it might be referred to in the ebonic vernacular, simply must be shown who's boss; the operation was therefore dubbed "Operation: K-Town Stomp".
The primary mission of this operation? Completely furnish the new condominium without suffering any mortal wounds at the hands of the ferocious locals. So, taking a light morning repast, I laced up my old army boots, dawned my coonskin cap (two items indispensable to these types of operations), camo'ed up the face, dashed out the door and into the wild frontier. Taking the town by storm, I swiftly procured only items that were requisite in fulfilling my mission, and only resorted to smashing skulls when my judgment deemed it completely necessary. Having the prescience of knowing that the mission could not be accomplished alone, I also issued deployment orders to some trusted allies in Nashville; namely, my sister (also ex-army, specializing in decorative strategies and furniture acquisitions) and my father (ex-Tennessee militia, specializing in a wide array of home improvement strategies). Upon received these orders, both of these allies quickly traversed the rugged terrain of Tennessee, and came to my aid battle ready.In a mere week's time, white flags were beginning to appear everywhere. Signs were nailed to trees near my house conveying rather compelling pleas for mercy. They had had enough - some had been kicked down flights of stairs; others had been thrown headlong into various trash receptacles; still others were the unfortunate recipients of the most egregious wedgies ever witnessed by humankind. On the flip side, food rations had been secured. Furniture had been acquired. Miscellaneous household items were now in my possession. And, it must added that all these items were attained without having received so much as a scratch on my limbs. Operation K-town Stomp was turning out to be a grand success.
These pleas for mercy went ignored, however. As far as I was concerned, the rampage was only beginning. On the last day of July, just as I was lacing up my boots in preparation to break some more bones, an official courier from the mayor suddenly knocked on my door and handed me the following letter:
Bravo! Then, assuming the illustrious citizens of Knoxville commit no further blunders or infractions, is it reasonable to presume that you and your fellow Knoxvillians are now of one accord?
Indeed, good comrade! Peace has returned, resting itself on the good city! Now, if you'll excuse me. Having recently been inoculated by the good folks at the local immunizations clinic, you must understand that I am quite sore and require adequate recuperation. I must bathe myself in the finest Pierrer waters, quench my thirst with a glass of Chardonnay, and partake of my mid-morning repast, which is being pre-chewed by my wonderful new maid-servants. Cheerio!
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