So there I was this evening, taking a break from my week full of housework to read a book, when I hear a heavy thumping up the front stairs. "Funny," I think. "Paul's not supposed to be home for another two hours." I peek out through our frosted-glass inside door, and see some guy I don't recognize banging on our front door. After about three seconds I realize this guy is absolutely loaded to the gills. He's drooling profusely, his eyes are unfocused, and he's trying the lock to no avail.
I call the cops, non-emergency number.
I go back to the front door and start shouting at the guy. "Go away! You've got the wrong house! You don't live here!" Zoë barks furiously: for once in her life, she's actually being encouraged, and she's taking full advantage of the fact I'm not reeling her in. The guy responds by kicking the door, then falling forward and smooshing one side of his face against the glass.
I call the cops again, this time on 9-1-1. Two officers are already en route.
The guy is still kicking the door and I'm still shouting at him five minutes later when the cops show up. I also have a broom in my hands. For those of you who don't know me that well, this probably seems like an inefficient weapon; for those of you who have played Kanar with me, you will understand that this was my only logical choice of gremlin-whacker.
So the cops come up on the front porch and sit the guy down in one of our plastic porch-chairs. They ask him all the usual questions, and things seem to be proceeding well when Drunky McStonerson throws a punch at one of the officers. Unfortunately from my vantage point I could only see two pairs of legs rolling around on the porch. Drunky's pantlegs are soaked through on the dorsal side, presumably with his own urine. I was immediately glad I didn't try to interact with the guy.
They get him cuffed and rolled over, and from what I could hear, he was so far gone that he couldn't answer anything the cops told him, though I did gather from his disjointed responses that he lives one street over and staggered up to the wrong house in his stupor. The cops called for an ambulance, and they loaded Drunky in, fortunately with no problems.
I gave the officers my contact info, and they disappeared into the night. If I've got to put up with the BS that comes with living downtown, I am certainly thankful for the prompt response time of Kalamazoo's finest.
Needless to say, I was pretty shaken by the whole encounter, and things were not improved by the fact that I was finishing the entire paperback of Cormac McCarthy's post-apocalyptic paranoia-fest, The Road just as Drunky showed up.
So then I called Becky Cooper and she talked to me till Paul got home. And then I got hugs, and then the world was all right again.
Yikes. Talk about awful timing in having just finished a book. I can't imagine going through that and just waiting for the police. Ick.
I'm glad there are Pauls in the world that make things right.
I know what that feeling is while that kind of thing is happening - I can only call it "Ick" for lack of something better. I'm glad that it didn't escalate any further and that your person and property made it through unscathed. I also hope that guy finds his way to the help he needs.
Still, I couldn't keep myself from giggling at the image of you armed with a broom yelling at the guy out your back door. I hope you were shaking your fist and using the Admonishment Form of "get" - that being "git" - as in, "Git off my dang porch!"
Wow - crazy how "ick" is the reaction of the day. I swear I had not read Chuck's comment before posting mine!