I like to say my life looks better in the writing than in the living. Last night was a wonderfully typical example.

I was in my Henderson apartment, alone, finishing the selected stories of Joyce Carol Oates (Sorry, if this last part is a cheap bid for your sympathy) when the call came. It was a local Vegas personage calling with a hot tip. In the background I heard happy voices and a woman's laughter and good times. "Hairspray" at Luxor is closing. The show just opened in February! The cast had been told moments before they went onstage. That was just a few minutes earlier.

By the time this is all explained to me, I am at my computer furiously typing notes. That was when I heard the sound or at least that was when I think I heard the sound. I can't say for sure because a call like that requires lots of follow-up calls for confirmations and details. (When is the last performance? Sunday.)

But at some point there was a sound. A loud, horrible, cracking, breaking, something's gone wrong sound. I looked up and the cats seemed fine and so I went back to work. All finished, the sound forgotten, about 30 minutes later I left my second-floor apartment door to go to the corner store for gummy bears. That was when I saw what caused the noise: the apartment directly beneath mine had its front door ripped off its hinges; there was cracked wood and splintered paint. The family that lived there had moved out over the weekend so the place should have been empty. I quietly retraced my steps back to my apartment and called 911. Whoever broke into the apartment bellow mine was gone by the time the police arrived. The officers and I discussed "Hairspray" closing. They were surprised. "Didn't that just open?" one asked.