The seller didn’t want all that much for the mansion, but it needed so much work. We had lived right around the corner, on Third Street. The Richard Robinson place with its impressive parquet floors and a dozen bedrooms sat across from the entrance to one of Louisville’s famed walking courts, the pedestrian-only thoroughfares designed to add a bit of London flair when planners laid out the neighborhood. I stared at the screen, and something slowly dawned on me: This was the house we had considered buying.
The preservation district with hundreds of Victorian mansions just south of the downtown area, the neighborhood where Ramon and I had lived until a few years before.
“An LMPD spokesperson said they discovered the body early this morning in what appeared to be a wine cellar of this dilapidated mansion in Old Louisville.” She turned to point at the façade of the building. The wind picked up and drowned out the reporter’s words for a moment, but then it died down, and her voice rose. Curious passersby looked on from the other side of the lawn as an early morning June breeze rustled the leaves on a nearby sycamore. Two men in hazmat suits jostled a blue-gray rubber storage bin down the walkway and into a waiting vehicle at the curb. Behind her, a pair of policemen hulked at the front door. A reporter stood in front of a huge, somewhat run-down brick house, where yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the front yard.
#John mayer where the light is reddit tv#
I started to turn off the TV and return to my writing when a local newsflash broke onto the screen. “We’re going to Little John’s today / To take our jewelry in and get our cash today / You will get a good deal / And you get paid for real / So bring it to Little John!” The train-wreck appeal of the commercial’s bad singing and acting had earned its originator cult status. Behind Little John, a cop, a construction worker, a cowboy, and a Native American clumsily danced and sang to the melody of the disco classic “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People. In the breakfast room, I popped the last bite of toasted onion bagel into my mouth before grabbing the remote. In a presidential tone and tailored suit, the diminutive Filipino pawnbroker explained that gold was selling at “an awesome” fifteen hundred dollars an ounce, “but not for long.” Now was the time to sell your unwanted jewelry, he insisted. Little John’s, near Churchill Downs Racetrack, attracted tourists from all over the world.