The time I almost got killed by this one guy.
Heart rate 55. Doorbell rang in subzero darkness. Heart rate 75. Not yet asleep, I glanced to my right at my nearly-dead bedside clock, whose battery I'd not yet changed due to ignorance of its location. Eleven o'clock... great. The first tentative, lonely notes of the 'Metroid' title-screen theme echoed in the back of my mind & body, living in the fear-filled, uncertain future.
"Hmmm, that's weird. Be right back, sweetie." Heart rate 90.
Downstairs into the unlit living room. Peeking through the front door's upper-arched window, I saw the tall Caucasian freezing in anticipation. I, the jury: 'Trustworthy.' I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stepping out into the cold with just a robe covering my boxers. "Gotta watch out for the cats," I said, heart rate inexplicably 60.
"Yeah, hi...". Southern accent. Glasses. Nondescript face, but late 30's. Dark close-cropped hair. Long dark winter coat, not quite a parka though. "I was just trying to get on the light rail over there," gestures westward, "And they kicked me off cuz I didn't have the fare, but I need to get the airport to catch a flight back home to Alabama... Birmingham... and I can't get a taxi..." and further convoluted nonsense.
"Sorry, yeah, um... I don't have anything to help you. You know, you should try that bar over there..." Skeptical of his story, but not skeptical of him too much.
"I tried that but they sent me away at the door."
"Well, yeah, so, good night. You know, be careful, it's a dangerous neighborhood."
"Yeah, that's what they told me at the bar." Closed door. Watched him go down our dead-end street, wandering up to a house with its lights on, then wandering back. Back to the bar area. Lost in the crowd.
Heart rate 120.
What the hell did I do that for? Should I call 911? What would they even be able to do?
Quickly debriefed the wife. Not pleased. Fair enough.
Back downstairs to peek through all windows again. Nothing.
Back to bed. Heart rate 80. Restless sleep.
2 mornings later: groggy, went out to my car, parked on the street, at 6:45 to warm it up. Freezing, I fumbled for my keys in my jacket and blindly sought out the remote opener as I approached the driver's side door. Heart rate 40. The driver's window -- MY window -- smashed to safety-glass quartz pieces. Heart rate 100. "Fuck!"
Back into house. "Shit!!!"
"What?"
"My car got broken into!"
I went back outside to check the damage. Opening the door, the last bits of glass from the window fell out, triggering the horn-alarm. "Oh, yeah, NOW you go off!" The inside passenger door plastic was smashed in by the rock that was apparently hurled into the cockpit by "Alabama Joe." All he took was my ancient iPod -- not even a color screen, sucker! -- and my sense of personal safety.
The glass installation guy arrived later in the day, working a small miracle. Heart rate 60. By evening, we realized that the flower pot on our front stoop had an indentation in the soil where a rock had been. We took the rock recovered from my car and placed it in the indentation. Like Indiana Jones might do. Perfect fit. Yes. Alabama Joe -- or someone -- took that rock from our front stoop's flower pot and broke into my car with it.
Could've just as easily taken that rock and broken the window on our front door, reached in, and unlocked it. I've had nightmares to that effect since childhood, and here it was, after all.
Police report filed -- "You know, you never should have opened the door that night." Wow, thanks for the great tip. That one should get published in "1,001 Secret Crime Fighting Techniques That Work." It's a pamphlet though, not a book, because really it's just 6 things. The "secret" is that they can't tell you the other ones.
So, ANYWAY... I was talking to the neighbors the next night and found out that the 9th-grade kid next door let this guy in the night after I did. The kid gave the guy -- who told a similar B.S. story -- $1.50.
When I told the kid my safety tips, sharing the worldly wisdom that I had purchased for a high price, he told me that he grabbed a heavy statue from his living room before he opened the door. He, in fact, demonstrated this to me: grab ugly rod-shaped sculpture; put sculpture behind back; position body carefully, not revealing hidden weapon behind back when talking to guy at door. Give guy some money from kitchen.
Thus, I was schooled yet again.
What should we do?-- become complete tools, as we contemplate our navels with visions of a city with no crime? In the days after the incident, we considered "security" services for our home, even calling some guy to come over for an estimate. This would involve various levels of measures that would do very little to deter crime, but would deter our cats. I voted for bars over the basement window, and maybe something for the front door. No follow-up has yet occured, as the event fades a bit in our memories and our heart rates normalize.
The lesson: when you hear the title screen music for a videogame that involves an interplanetary bounty hunter who engages in the solitary and anxiety-inducing pursuit of deadly lab-created aliens -- you better listen to it.
"Hmmm, that's weird. Be right back, sweetie." Heart rate 90.
Downstairs into the unlit living room. Peeking through the front door's upper-arched window, I saw the tall Caucasian freezing in anticipation. I, the jury: 'Trustworthy.' I unlocked the door and opened it a crack, stepping out into the cold with just a robe covering my boxers. "Gotta watch out for the cats," I said, heart rate inexplicably 60.
"Yeah, hi...". Southern accent. Glasses. Nondescript face, but late 30's. Dark close-cropped hair. Long dark winter coat, not quite a parka though. "I was just trying to get on the light rail over there," gestures westward, "And they kicked me off cuz I didn't have the fare, but I need to get the airport to catch a flight back home to Alabama... Birmingham... and I can't get a taxi..." and further convoluted nonsense.
"Sorry, yeah, um... I don't have anything to help you. You know, you should try that bar over there..." Skeptical of his story, but not skeptical of him too much.
"I tried that but they sent me away at the door."
"Well, yeah, so, good night. You know, be careful, it's a dangerous neighborhood."
"Yeah, that's what they told me at the bar." Closed door. Watched him go down our dead-end street, wandering up to a house with its lights on, then wandering back. Back to the bar area. Lost in the crowd.
Heart rate 120.
What the hell did I do that for? Should I call 911? What would they even be able to do?
Quickly debriefed the wife. Not pleased. Fair enough.
Back downstairs to peek through all windows again. Nothing.
Back to bed. Heart rate 80. Restless sleep.
2 mornings later: groggy, went out to my car, parked on the street, at 6:45 to warm it up. Freezing, I fumbled for my keys in my jacket and blindly sought out the remote opener as I approached the driver's side door. Heart rate 40. The driver's window -- MY window -- smashed to safety-glass quartz pieces. Heart rate 100. "Fuck!"
Back into house. "Shit!!!"
"What?"
"My car got broken into!"
I went back outside to check the damage. Opening the door, the last bits of glass from the window fell out, triggering the horn-alarm. "Oh, yeah, NOW you go off!" The inside passenger door plastic was smashed in by the rock that was apparently hurled into the cockpit by "Alabama Joe." All he took was my ancient iPod -- not even a color screen, sucker! -- and my sense of personal safety.
The glass installation guy arrived later in the day, working a small miracle. Heart rate 60. By evening, we realized that the flower pot on our front stoop had an indentation in the soil where a rock had been. We took the rock recovered from my car and placed it in the indentation. Like Indiana Jones might do. Perfect fit. Yes. Alabama Joe -- or someone -- took that rock from our front stoop's flower pot and broke into my car with it.
Could've just as easily taken that rock and broken the window on our front door, reached in, and unlocked it. I've had nightmares to that effect since childhood, and here it was, after all.
Police report filed -- "You know, you never should have opened the door that night." Wow, thanks for the great tip. That one should get published in "1,001 Secret Crime Fighting Techniques That Work." It's a pamphlet though, not a book, because really it's just 6 things. The "secret" is that they can't tell you the other ones.
So, ANYWAY... I was talking to the neighbors the next night and found out that the 9th-grade kid next door let this guy in the night after I did. The kid gave the guy -- who told a similar B.S. story -- $1.50.
When I told the kid my safety tips, sharing the worldly wisdom that I had purchased for a high price, he told me that he grabbed a heavy statue from his living room before he opened the door. He, in fact, demonstrated this to me: grab ugly rod-shaped sculpture; put sculpture behind back; position body carefully, not revealing hidden weapon behind back when talking to guy at door. Give guy some money from kitchen.
Thus, I was schooled yet again.
What should we do?-- become complete tools, as we contemplate our navels with visions of a city with no crime? In the days after the incident, we considered "security" services for our home, even calling some guy to come over for an estimate. This would involve various levels of measures that would do very little to deter crime, but would deter our cats. I voted for bars over the basement window, and maybe something for the front door. No follow-up has yet occured, as the event fades a bit in our memories and our heart rates normalize.
The lesson: when you hear the title screen music for a videogame that involves an interplanetary bounty hunter who engages in the solitary and anxiety-inducing pursuit of deadly lab-created aliens -- you better listen to it.
posted by B.O.R.T. at 3:07 PM
1 Comments:
Yes, yes... I'm not sorry for the delayed response. I like to think you've been waiting in some amount of suspense for this (while slowly eating your stupid, precious Fig Newtons, making no less of a mess on your pants), and I like that thought.
I had to think really about what you said really. This was my order of thoughts:
1) boy, you hit the sack early
2) don't answer that door at this time
3) what? usually you call 911 first and ask questions later - that method's genius is now beginning to shine through
4) A big rock you say?
5) That rock could have been used for smashing your door in yes, but what about your skull? Ever think of that?
6) you need to purchase a gun and a taser, possibly even keep a scalding liquid ready on the stovetop
7) do you need my help?
And then, because I like to read the text first and study the links later (of which you produced many), I had to develop a whole supplementary list of thoughts:
1) Should I take Rex Fisher seriously? He's a professor at BYU Idaho... I guess. Also his profile picture looks as if his main personal safety tip is, "project expression as if it say, "do you really want to attack me?""
2) Should I try to visualize Milwaukee? If so, does it make me a tool? No need to be concerned with either of these questions. I can visualize the city quite well thank you - filthy old broken shit, smoke, steel rails, and neon signs from 1971. Plus some big piles of different stock materials.
3) Lots of links make me lose track of reality. This makes me sleep.
My conclusions:
1) lucky you didn't die
2) I lock my door real good now
3) TBD
4) Growing Pains marathon? I guess so.
5) NASA
Now to other things - the way I've responded to a cartoon in cartoon will be posted soon, and also here's something of interest:
http://badgerherald.com/news/2007/02/15/mayor_candidate_gets.php
I will setup a meeting if you want. I'm sure he's receptive to that sort of thing. He's retired now afterall, and only has large predatorial birds and government plunderers to worry about.
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