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This evening while walking with Brittney in my neighborhood, we found a wallet in the street. Lots of credit cards, $7 cash, no drivers license, but after a bit of digging we located a crumpled carbon copy of a ticket that 19-year-old “Tyler” had received for minor in possession of alcohol. The ticket had his address on it (a few houses down), and probably explains why there was no drivers’ license in the wallet. We returned it to a stoned and/or drunk but grateful Tyler, who only opened the door a sliver when we knocked, but that sliver was enough to let out the overpowering odor of stale beer and cigarettes.
It was a little disappointing in that we thought that perhaps Tyler’s parents might answer the door and ask how we knew to which house the wallet belonged seeing as how there was no drivers’ license therein, at which point we’d gleefully show them the minor in possession citation and Tyler might be grounded until he was 21.
Oh well.
Last night I woke up rather unpleasantly at 2 a.m. to the light of a police helicopter shining in my bedroom window. The helicopter circled my neighborhood, and specifically my street, for what must have been 30 minutes, shining that zillion-watt beam every which way, on roofs, backyards, side yards. As soon as the helicopter left, we heard voices outside and saw a police car and officers walking down our street with flashlights, looking in courtyards. It took me another hour to get back to sleep. I don’t really mind the disturbance; I’m glad they’re searching so thoroughly for their suspect. It disturbs me, though, to think that there might be a criminal of the caliber that would warrant a helicopter search roaming through my street in the dead of night.
This happens from time to time in my neighborhood. Maybe once every four to six weeks we’ll hear helicopters overhead at night. This was the first time that they focused specifically on my street, though. We live a few blocks from some rather shady apartment complexes and an industrial part of town, so it’s not entirely surprising.
Today at work I opened the door to the women’s bathroom to find a maintenance man standing inside. I was, of course, quite surprised and said “Oh! I’m sorry, I’ll come back later.” He smiled and said, “Actually, this is perfect. Tell me, does it smell in here?” Was he kidding? Did he seriously want me to come in and take a big whiff? Did he DO SOMETHING IN THERE? I poked my head in and cautiously sniffed – nothing. He pointed at the floor and gave some long-winded explanation about a backed up drain and the bubbling kitchen sink, at which point I noticed not one but TWO huge cockroaches scuttling across the bathroom floor. I politely made my exit and decided to use the first floor bathroom from now on.