Recently re-established contact with another friend of my youth, another of those who knew me when I was impressive. Inevitably I am reminded that I have done nothing of note with all of the advantages I once had. What I have had is some pretty strange encounters. I once, while minding my own quite boring business and quite by chance, stood across from irate murderers so notorious I won't elaborate. Once in a while I wonder what I would have done had I known what carnage they would create and come to the conclusion the answer is nothing. Don't have it in me.
All of these ruminations occurred because I came across an add for a movie, Cropsey. Sounds like an interesting documentary of sorts: crime story, cultural study of Staten Island, Blair Witch revisited. It struck a chord, because a few weeks before the disappearance of the last little girl, the convicted murderer came into my husband's store and hung around shooting the breeze. I don't remember being afraid of him. I think he was one of the locals. But in light of later events, I am struck by the behavior of my daughter, about three at the time, who spent his entire visit
affixed to my right kneecap. Strange, life.
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