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Copyright © 2003-2004 Phil Elmore, all rights
reserved.
An Amusing Incident At 0345
By Phil Elmore
I woke up a few nights ago to the sounds of someone
swearing, over and over again. “FUCK THIS! FUCK THIS! FUCK
THIS!” He was yelling at the top of his lungs. I sleep
very soundly; he had to have been very loud to wake me, for the window
in my bedroom was not open. The window in the kitchen down the hall was.
I thought it might be a domestic dispute of some kind. We’ve had a lot
of nonsense going on the neighborhood lately, mostly involving simple
disturbance-of-the-peace issues. I pulled on clothes and shoes, took my
SureFire and my wireless phone, and went out to see what the hell was going on
— and call the cops, if necessary.
What I found was a twenty-something man of medium build and unremarkable
features, screaming at the top of his lungs next to his Lexus. The back
window was smashed out. He was extremely agitated.
I then entered some sort of surreal comedy skit.
“What’s going on out here?” I kept my voice low; it was
0345 in the morning and there was enough shouting going on.
“MY TELEVISIONS, THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON! CAN YOU SEE THIS? WHAT THE
HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE! I’M NOT TRYING TO WAKE ANYONE UP OR CAUSE ANY
TROUBLE…!”
He went on like that for a while, and it was then that I got the general gist
of the problem. At some point he indicated again that — I guess — he
did not understand why anyone would care, besides him, what was going on.
“Well, you’ve got to understand,” I said reasonably, “it’s four
in the morning and people are bound to hear the noise.”
“THAT’S ALL PEOPLE IN THIS PLACE DO IS COMPLAIN!” he screamed.
“WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO? GET ME ARRESTED? YOU WANT TO
ARREST ME? WHY DON’T YOU WANT TO ARREST THE PEOPLE WHO BROKE IN
MY FUCKING CAR? LOOK AT THIS, MY HARD-EARNED MONEY, MAN!”
It was at this point that he managed to communicate the nature of the theft —
apparently his Lexus had televisions built into the headrests of the seats so
people in the back could use Playstations and such while riding in the
vehicle. The headrests had been stolen.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” I said politely.
“But it sounded like there was a fight.”
“DO YOU SEE ANYONE FUCKING FIGHTING HERE? DO YOU? DO
YOU??”
Not yet, I thought. “I was just concerned,” I told him. “I was worried.”
“IF YOU WANT TO FUCKING WORRY, WORRY ABOUT YOUR CAR! LOOK AT
THIS!”
We went on like that for what must have been three or four minutes. Like
Joe Pesci in Goodfellas,
nothing I said to defuse the situation helped. He only got angrier.
“Did you call the cops?” I finally asked.
“WHAT THE FUCK YOU THINK?” he demanded, still gesturing wildly at
his car. I have honestly never seen anyone so upset about a burglary.
He was practically foaming at the mouth, and I am not exaggerating.
“Are they on their way, then?”
That seemed to give him pause. At that moment, the first of what would
be four police cars rolled up. Apparently the entire neighborhood dialed
911, for which I can’t say I blame them.
The cops took the car owner aside. They originally asked me to stick
around but then sent me on my way when it became clear that there was nothing
violent happening (three of the four cars left, too). The last thing I
heard was my neighbor talking to the cop:
“I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU, IT’S JUST…!”
I can only imagine that the officer found him as surreal to speak with as had
I.
I never got back to bed that morning.
I went to work instead, where I drank
coffee and pondered the often irrational and almost always irritating nature
of the human condition.
