Megan Calls the Cops On Our Yard Gnome

This morning Jude's cell phone rang at about 3:15. It woke me up, but it was in the other room so I ignored it. "If somebody's dead," I thought, "they'll still be dead at sunrise." But then my cell phone rang. I wasn't out of bed quick enough to answer, but that call did get me vertical to go listen to the message. It was Megan, next door.

"I heard a loud bang over there and I can see some guy in your yard," she said.

Bravely, boldly, I peeked through an eensy weensy crack in our living room curtain. I could see a supine body in the yard, its bare feet twitching, and on the porch I could see an ammo belt with about 50 bullets. I thought, "Is this guy shot?" Fortunately I didn't have to learn whether I had enough nerve to go out and check on him myself, because a police cruiser pulled up and shone his spotlight on the guy. I'd say he was about 28, blondish, and dressed to party with some loud Loverboy tunes and a whole lot of Miller High Life.

I went out onto the porch and said, "Officer, there's some ammo up here on the porch."

"I think that's probably Mr. Hardcore's belt," he answered, indicating the splendor on the grass, "since it goes so well with his boots."

The guy was a rocker, still wearing his rocker gear from a night of hard drinking. I'm no CSI officer, but the perp left a pretty clear trail of destruction marking his recent activity. He'd apparently decided to take a little napsky on our porch bench; he'd begun to disrobe there, knocked over Jude's planter and beat a hasty retreat to the yard, where our lush lawn was too inviting to pass up. Off came his black and chrome boots, his badass jean jacket, his badass black bandanna with skull pattern, and down goes Lightweight Larry.

The cop roused him with, "Hey! Hey, do you know where you are?"

"No. Yes. I'm right here. None of your business. I can do whatever."

"Is that why you knocked over this guy's plant pot? Put your hands behind you."

"But not your plant pot. Not yours."

The cop actually apologized to me for my trouble as he loaded Drunky Dan's effects into the trunk. I felt like a real taxpayer. I picked a wallet up from the walkway and handed it to the officer, wishing I had some muffins or something to give him. He opened the wallet and took a look. "He's from out of state. Probably a student -- school's starting." Then, to the guy in the backseat, he said, "Welcome to Oregon! Have you seen our drunk tank?" and off they went. You say no to drugs, kids.