I got checked out on the Seneca on Wednesday, successfully passed the checkride (which was much easier than I had thought), and am now a certificated multi-engine pilot. Please hold applause until the end. Thursday morning we drove to L.A. (lower Alabama) to see my uncle and some cousins of mine. Why we drove instead of flying when we have three fully rated pilots in the family is still a mystery…

My uncle recently married a very nice lady named Linda, and we were going to meet her family and stuff. The Alabama side of my family (including Linda) was born and raised in small towns, and have some of the trimmings of small town life, like thick southern accents, easygoing personalities, and a desire to kill black people. Yes, that last one was a joke. I was looking forward to meeting Linda’s family in the hopes that they would be all rednecky and give me a funny story to write. I was humbled an a few ways. Here I am looking for the idiot dressed in camouflage to come in and wow us with tales of hunting with Clem and how Little John got a wild hair and decided to pester Big John poking him with a stick while he was sleepin’, an’ done got Big John riled up ta’ whar he come at him with a buck knife and like ta’ kilt him if Regular John hadn’t broke it up. I really expected that. All I got was one guy with a camouflaged nascar hat, and he turned out to be a very nice guy. In fact, everyone I met that day was simply genuine and completely accepting. This was cause for some introspection on my part. I had to ask myself why I was so looking forward to meeting a bunch of retards to blast in my diary, and realized that I had just learned a lesson from a bunch of “rednecks”. There were a few instances of stereotypical behavior, but just as many on my part I’m sure. In any case, the food was unbelievable and plentiful, and no one said a word when I fell asleep on the recliner 15 minutes after eating and remained there for almost two hours.

So In lieu of the redneck story that never panned out, I’ll tell you the story about the time I caught a guy robbing my apartment in college.

I didn’t skip many classes in college. I figured it was costing about $15 per hour of class time, so I would be there if I was able to walk. I had seen a guy hanging around my apartment complex a few times in the past few weeks, and didn’t think much of it. I definitely didn’t think he was casing my place so he’d know when I was gone. Call me unaware. He didn’t look suspicious to me, and he even asked me the time once. One day I decided for some reason that I didn’t want to go to my Spanish class. I think it was because I had sold my books to buy ramen noodles, and didn’t want to share my shame with the whole class. I had a two-bedroom place, and my roommate had recently moved out, so it was all mine. I parked my car, started to get out and glanced up at the window, and there was some guy who wasn’t paying any rent staring back at me. I recognized him as the chronologically challenged young man from a couple of days before, so I made a gesture from two floors below that said “umm…excuse me, but you don’t live there…” He gestured for me to come up like it was no big deal, but I had decided to kill him. I looked in the back seat and found a 1” dowel that I was going to use for a model making project, and instantly decided it would look great in an evidence room covered with this guy’s dried blood and brain matter.

Before I continue, let me assure you that I am not a violent person by nature, and everyone I have told this story to says “weren’t you scared?”. No. I should have been scared, knowing now that the guy had previous convictions for armed robbery and so on, but at the time all I felt was blinding rage. There is nothing in the world that will make you angrier than knowing someone is in your house going through your stuff, taking whatever he wants. Seeing someone abuse an animal or a kid is a distant second.

Armed with seething fury and a 36” piece of pine (what the hell was I thinking?) I vaulted to the top of the stairs, where my apartment door stood ajar. What followed was probably the most frightening moment of my life. The moment that as I was in mid-air the front door came open and he was standing there with something in his hand that I was sure was a gun with which to end my life. I had time to wonder what it was going to feel like to get shot. Having already committed to a mindless act of retaliation, I aimed the dowel for his throat and somehow connected. He gagged, stumbled backward, fell over the arm of the couch, hit the coffee table, dropped whatever was in his hand, and found himself unable to breathe due to the fact that I was standing there with most of my weight on the foot that was placed on his chest, and the remainder pressing a 1”dowel into the base of his throat. With the exception of Michael Jackson, I have never seen a black guy turn white before or since. I tried to regain my wits, and glanced around to see if there was anyone else there. Not seeing anything except the splintered remains of my deadbolt, I started asking him questions like just what the hell did he think he was doing in my house, who the fuck did he think he was, what was stopping me from killing him right here, and so on. I swear, I’m not a violent person. Really. When he wouldn’t respond, I started kicking him in the ribs to encourage him, and then realized that he probably couldn’t breathe with me all trying to kill him and stuff, so I relented, just in case he was a maintenance guy and I ended up making a huge mistake. You won’t get your deposit back if you kill the maintenance guy. I know a maintenance guy wouldn’t have shattered my deadbolt to fix my garbage disposal, but I wasn’t thinking really clearly. I started the questions again.

Me- What the hell are you doing in my house?

Him- I was using the Phone.

*Dusty stands bewildered at this answer for a second before kicking him quite hard and asking for another answer*

Him- The door was open.

Me- Come on. The bolt is all jacked up. You kicked it in. I don’t leave the door open. Plus, what the hell kind of person just picks a random house to borrow the phone?!

Him- Come on, man, I got nothin’ to kick it in with.

Me- (glancing at the new reeboks on his feet) YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER! YOU HAVE FEET ON THE ENDS OF YOUR GODDAMN LEGS! (delivering two more kicks that I later found out broke two ribs)

Him- Man, I work for maintenance. Call the office. I swear. Let me up. I’m in pain.

Me- I’m going to call the office, and you are going to sit there while I do. If you move, I will kill you and it will be legal. What is your name?

Him- Brad Cook.

Me- That doesn’t sound made up at all.

At the time, I didn’t have a cellphone, and the phone in the house was encumbered by a cord attaching the handset to the wall. I know it’s archaic, but that’s really how things used to be. Needless to say, as soon as I picked up the phone, he bolted out the door. I had time to tell the apartment manager to call the police and I’d call her back, and I set out after our friend Brad. To his credit, after a severe beating he could still run like a raped ape. By the time I got to the bottom of the stairs he was clearing the fence at the edge of the property, and I decided not to chase him. I called the property manager and she said the cops were on their way. They arrived about five minutes later and asked me to describe him. I told them everything I knew and which way he went. They caught him about another five minutes later- almost a mile away. The kid could have made it in sports if he wasn’t robbing people. They called me and said they thought they had him, and brought him over so I could identify him. Strangely, he now had a few wounds that I didn’t inflict. Swollen lip, bruise on face, and so on. I didn’t feel much pity for him then or now. The Cops told me his name was Andre Buchanan (WHAT?! He lied to me?!), and he was on work release from prison for armed robbery and grand theft auto. He had taken my checks and a cheap watch, (actually, he didn’t take them. They were found in the back seat of the police car that he was in, and had somehow gotten there magically) and had also stashed a bunch of my clothes in the bathroom that he hoped to get out with. I knew he wouldn’t get far with my money, unless he knew how to retire on $7.29, and the watch was not worth anything. The clothes probably wouldn’t have fit him either, since he was a couple of inches taller than I. Not sure what his plan was. The cops told me that they’d really appreciate it if I would press charges because he would have a mandatory 15 year sentence for violating the terms of the work release program. Andre then broke down and said “Fifteen YEARS, man. Think about what you’re doing to me!” I stared at him, still shaking, wondering how someone so incredibly stupid could possibly breathe without assistance, and said, “Where do I sign?” I went to the station and they filled out a report. The mental skyscraper that is Andre Buchanan is in prison for fifteen years. He’ll probably be gracing the streets of Auburn again in the next few years, going house to house, using the phone…

Later that day, I had neighbors coming over to ask what all of the thumping and cursing was about. The girl that lived upstairs said that she saw him messing with my door when she got home and heard me ask what he was doing in my house, and then him having his ass kicked a few minutes later. I had to ask why she didn’t call the cops. She said she wasn’t sure what was going on. That is amazing to me. I told her in the future when she sees every conceivable indication of a burglary, please feel free to call the police.

That is another story from the archives of my life. I hope you enjoyed it and learned not to be stupid like I was if you see someone in your house who doesn’t live there.

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