In the mid-1990s, my friend James B convinced me to help move his girlfriend’s belongings from her apartment in Auburn, Alabama. Her lease had expired. She was in the hospital and couldn’t help.
The apartment was a two-story condo, as were all apartments in this complex. During the move, James B and I were in different rooms on the second floor when I heard a loud explosion. I walked toward the explosion and found him holding a pistol.
“What happened?” I said.
“I tried to cock it, and it went off,” he said.
James B had found his girlfriend’s .22 caliber revolver. I have no idea why he tried to cock it.
There was a bullet-hole in the floor. We walked to the first floor, and there was no bullet-hole in the ceiling. We wondered if the round had gone into the neighboring apartment. It was early evening, and we could see the neighbor’s lights were on. We knocked on the neighbor’s door, but no one responded. We wondered if a neighbor was hit by the bullet and was wounded or dead.
We continued the move and didn’t say much after that. We moved stuff one load at a time with a van, and every time we returned to the apartment, we knocked on the neighbor’s door. No one ever responded.
We finished the job around midnight. The neighbor’s lights were still on, and no one would answer the door.
We went to our separate homes, and I had trouble sleeping. I wondered if there was someone dead in that apartment and what the hell was I going to tell the police if they ever tracked us down.
The next day, James B went back to the apartment complex, knocked, and someone opened the neighbor’s door. There was no dead body and no bullet-hole in the wall or ceiling. The neighbor said he’d been out of town the day before. Maybe the bullet was jammed in a board in the building somewhere.
I enjoy telling this story more than I enjoyed living it.