So yesterday I was in my house, minding my own business, when the doorbell rang.
Happily, Jim was close enough to answer the door, as he was out of his basement lair to scrounge some lunch. I perked up because I thought it was my best friend, the UPS man, bringing me some treats.
There’s a guy at the door who looks like he’s a Sheriff.
He says he’s School District Security.
He has a gun.
Happily, both kids are doing schoolwork at that exact moment, so I’m bristling and getting ready to snap, “See, Copper, SEE? WE DO WORKBOOKS.”
Okay, let me backup. The house we are renting overlooks a big ravine with a walking trail. Across the ravine is one of the school district’s school bus parking lots. It’s not what you’d call The Best View In Town, but to me it’s a thousand times better than looking into someone else’s house. The buses are probably a quarter-mile away. I actually kind of like watching the buses because it provides opportunities to say things like wow, look how early they leave! look how cold it is! aren’t you glad you don’t go to school? and so on and so forth. Plus, there are coyotes in the ravine and that’s interesting.
ANYWAY. The school-cop-with-a-gun tells us that someone has been hitting golf balls across the ravine, and they are breaking windows out of the school buses, and based on the trajectory, they are coming from our yard.
And then I looked into the backyard and sure enough, the CSI team has set up a big, long pole with a laser pointer at the end going from a hole in a school bus window, over the ravine, and into our yard. And that guy from Numbers is in the parking lot scrawling calculus all over a big chalkboard and gesticulating toward our house. And the Law & Order guys are striding around with their tan trench coats flapping at their ankles.
No. Not really.
There was a golf ball on the ground? How can you possibly determine trajectory to any degree of accuracy over what has to be nearly two thousand yards? Furthermore, why would we be suspects and not say, SCHOOL KIDS? Or the teenagers next door? Or the hundreds of people who use the path every day? Or the stupid neighborhood teenagers who climb down into the ravine and do whatever ill-advised things teenagers do? And besides, don’t the buses go to places like SCHOOLS where they have golf teams and carry the aforementioned golf-club-swinging kids to things like golf matches (matches? games? innings?) where there might be the errant golf ball? And further-furthermore, I’ve never seen anyone on the trail hitting golf balls or I would’ve ratted them out in a hot minute.
So Inspector Clouseau accuses us of vandalizing school property, tells us he knows we have kids, and also asks my husband if his name is Ron, which is the name of the owner of this house, which is a matter of public record, but why is he looking us up in the public record?
And then I screamed, “IT’S THE FUZZ! GO, KIDS, GO! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! ” and I grabbed the babies and we hauled ass into the garage where I chucked them into my tricked-out Dodge Charger, put the pedal to the metal and busted through the door, Dukes of Hazzard-style and now we’re on the lam.
No. Not really.
So eventually he left, and then a minute later we saw him walking on the trail behind the house, making ridiculous trajectory-calculating arm gestures toward the bus lot.
But still. It was weird. And it freaked us out a little.
Us freaked out looks a lot like Jim reciting some of Cheech & Chong’s material about cops while I try not to laugh and look stern (unsuccessfully) and say we don’t talk like that, because policepersons are our FRIENDS.
AND THEN after the guy left, Jim starts wondering if it was all just a ruse, because we’ve never seen anyone hitting golf balls out there and maybe he was scoping us out for a Social Services visit.
But I am going to buy some chocolate and not think about it.
Maybe I’ll get the HSLDA number out.