Southern Land Lord

My job usually isn't very exciting. Most of the time I work alone in a church office in the basement of a building. There are windows so it's not so drab. One of the highlights of two weeks in August was watching a spider kill and eat three crickets in the corner of the women's restroom. But today has to be a highlight for me of exciting events here at the church office. I am working alone today again and the pastor is on vacation. Yesterday I discovered that the power had been shut off to "the scary room" as I call it--the room where all the power cords and phone lines connect into. Well, that means no computers and no phones for the office. An extension cord repaired that problem, but the power had been shut off on a different floor which apparently our kitchen was tied into. The soupy mess I discovered when I went to place my yummy cucumber sandwich in the fridge this morning was horrific. Which led to my journey of tracking down the land lord of the building. An easy task, you would think, but four phone calls go unreturned. I discover the office is just next door, though, but inside an antique shop. I decide to be confrontational and proactive about the nasty mess inside the kitchen and since my phone calls are unreturned, I make an appearance at the antique shop. At 9 a.m. in the morning, the shop was a frightening sight to anyone, especially someone like me who thinks that antique shops/swap meets/flea markets are mostly just big junk shows. The first thing I see when I walk into the warehouse sized building is an entire wall, floor to ceiling, of dead stuffed animal heads. (see photo) The creepiness continues as I walk around the huge warehouse full of junk and dead animals, and no one is there. "Hello? Anyone here? Hello?" So then I start imagining people waiting for me to come around the corner and kidnap me and I decide that my leaky fridge isn't worth risking my life for. As I walk out the door, I notice a vehicle parked at the end of the lot near a fence to an outdoor area. I walk down and peek through the fence and there sits Betty Lou, or that's the name I gave her in my head. A smoker with crop pants on and a raspy voice. She worked there and as I explained my situation, she told me she'd me meet back inside. Oh dread. On the phone to her husband/son/whoever owns the company, she explains that "the little girl from the church is here" (I recently celebrated my 28th birthday). Apparently that phone call finally reached someone to fix my little problem and I got out of that nasty building as soon as I could. Anyway, there's a little taste of how land lords do business in the South.