Oh.
Really.
As I’ve reached the limits of my own negotiating capabilities, I’m left with no choice but to call in the big guns.
No, not those. [Until it’s legal to shoot someone for being an asshole, my weapon of choice is a shovel.] I mean Fletch.
He’s on the other side of the second floor in the bedroom. He hears me squawking, “Perimeter breach! Perimeter breach!” as I thunder down the hallway. He assumes I’m on a bad Ambien trip, perhaps cut with a side of crazy, but I assure him that other than Claritin, I’m entirely sober. I brief him on the sitch and he takes off up the street after them while I call 911. His goal isn’t to confront them as much as maintain visual contact and direct the police to them.
After dialing, I, too, take to the street, fancying myself a high-kicking, martial-arts-knowing, wig-flipping CIA operative like the divine Miss Jennifer Garner starring as Sydney Bristow. But she must practice more often because I’m able to jog all of fifteen feet before I get a stitch in my side.
Fortunately, Fletch can run more than half a block before collapsing in a heap of pastel terry cloth, sock monkey slippers, and a mud mask, so he manages to catch up to the perps. Because I’m still spitting distance from my house sucking air and hugging my knees, Fletch has to fill me in on what happens next.
Quick caveat? It’s possible he caught up to them not because he’s a paragon of physical fitness. The more likely explanation is that the miscreants are all weighed down in the kind of layered hippie clothing last seen praying for a miracle at a Grateful Dead show, so they aren’t exactly truckin’.
As Fletch walks up behind them, he says, “My wife tells me you decided to pay us a visit.”
The couple becomes visibly agitated and Stevie Nicks asks, “Um, who’s your wife?”
To which he replies, “The woman I married.”
That’s the extent of Sergeant Fletcher’s interrogation before the police arrive. [For as many complaints as I’ve had with the CPD’s response time, I must give them kudos for arriving in a flash in this instance.]
I guess as soon as the police are on the scene, both the tweakers immediately begin to cry, with Stevie sobbing that she thought her friend lived there. Yet when questioned, neither one of them has any idea of what their friend’s name is. The woman begs for a warning because she really needs a miracle, man.
Not to be all heartless, but let’s look at this story with a critical eye. These people decide to stop in and see their Friend With No Name. And they choose to pay a visit to said nameless friend at midnight. On a Tuesday. In a darkened house. And instead of say, ringing the doorbell like every other goddamned person who walks by my house, they force their skinny arms through the extremely tight metal bars of the security gate, reaching around to unlock it before heading to the stoop to peek in the windows. And then when questioned by authorities about said trespass, they request a miracle.
Yes. Clearly this is the most logical explanation.
When I initially popped out of the window, instead of offering a genuine reaction like, “Shit, this isn’t Holly’s place? I’m so sorry!” (or even “Nice robe, fatty!”) their first response is to swear at me, threaten me, and jog away carrying a whole bunch of empty bags. Right. Seems innocent enough to me.
The fact that Stevie Nicks is carrying no ID and is currently on probation after serving time for breaking and entering doesn’t lend a lot of credibility to her story.
Fletch is up the street with one set of officers while another talks to me. I fill him in on all the ways that our house has been marked lately. “We’ve been tagged almost daily and we keep finding odd items, like pennies glued to our mailbox and soda bottles lined up on our fence posts in distinct patterns, like crop circles or some weird paranormal shit.” Plus our doorbell rings all day long and I can’t imagine that all of it relates to little kids heading to the park, especially when it happens after dark.
The officer nods gravely. “Ever considered moving?”
“We’re off to Lake County in three weeks.”
“The economy’s making it worse and worse around here.” The officer begins looking at me very pointedly. “So there’s no misunderstanding, you realize that wasn’t a social call, ma’am. I suggest you press charges. Can you tell me if they tried to open the door?”
“I heard it and I didn’t understand what it was at first, but yes, I’d say they did. However, I didn’t see it happen.”
“Are you sure? I need to know if they tried the door.” He keeps looking at me in what I interpret as a meaningful way, but maybe he’s just trying to guess how big my pores are under this mask?
I shift in my slippers. “Again, I can’t say I saw it. The knob’s not visible from my desk. But I heard it.”
“Ma’am, this is very important. I need to ask you one more time, did they try the door?”
I scratch the side of my face and bits of clay crumble onto my robe. “I definitely heard what sounded like someone thumping against it. I’d bet my life on it, but in good conscience I can’t bet anyone else’s. I didn’t see them try the door with my own eyes. So in all fairness, I can’t say that they did.”
The officer seems to deflate a little as he takes down this bit of information.
I have to appear in court next month now. Because I didn’t see them try the door with my own eyes, they’re charged only with simple assault and
