JOHN'S CHANNEL: GUN IN MY GIRDLE

In honor of my birthday, John is taking over my blog-posting duties.

Just kidding.  In reality, this story happened last Thursday and is pretty wild.  I'll let John tell it, since it was his story.  Let me just say that I am so glad that everyone is okay and that John is so sensible.  That is a real blessing.

The rest is from John - enjoy!

On Thursday, I had one of those experiences that is guaranteed to become a story that I will repeat often enough to drive away some of my more casual friends. I'll be a "one-hit-wonder" of the story-telling realm.  Please hear me say that the act of telling you this story is not my attempt to drive away casual friends, but I thought a short disclaimer was necessary.

Thursday afternoon, I was driving home around 4:45 pm. Carol and the girls were out-of-town and it was the first day of March Madness.  Enough said.  As I drove closer to our neighborhood, I saw the first 3 police cars.  Three police cars may sound like a lot--it did to me too.  Then I turned onto the street that enters our neighborhood.  That's when I realized a temporary police substation had been set up in our neighborhood.  In an attempt to limit my exaggeration, I'll conservatively say there were 6 more police cars/SUVs/vans congregating at this location.  Then I drove through the roundabout at the end of our street, and yet another police car.  Then I pull up to our house and two houses down I see 3 local news crews set up and I notice there is a helicopter flying low overhead with a sheriffs emblem on the outside of it.  We live in the 'burbs.  This is not normal.

I pull into the drive way and walk over to a news crew (making sure to keep my hands in plain view as the helicopter hovers overhead), and ask what is going on.  The news guy, clearly unclear about specifics, proceeds to tell me there was a burglary leading to an officer-involved shooting (no one was hit) on the street behind us and they hadn't found the suspect.  I go back to my car and pull into the garage.  Prior to heading inside, I grab my large Maglite flashlight and enter my house.  So, yes, I was bringing a flashlight to a gunfight.  I guess I was hoping to blind him if me and the perpetrator were to cross paths. I immediately head to the place in my house where I keep my…well, we'll call it my "kazoo."  Entering into a gun debate would only detract from this awesome story.  So I go room-to-room with my kazoo making sure I am alone in the house.  

Quick aside: on TV, police make checking a house for bad guys look easy, and I realized I have no clue how to do it.  You will all be pleased to know that I knew better than to kick in every door in my house.  It would have felt awesome, but the price tag for repairs was clearly not worth it. 

As I was ensuring the safety of my house, I realized quickly the burglary/shooting had taken place at the house directly behind our house (give or take a 100 feet of greenbelt).  I saw the scurrying around of police and detectives.  I noticed the police tape blocking off the front of the house.  Through all of this, the practical part of me is thinking this guy is long gone. 

With the peace-of-mind that my house was free of evildoers, I settle into my couch to watch some basketball.  Of course, I kept my kazoo nearby.  About 10 minutes later IT happened.  The moment when I crossed the threshold of being a spectator to being an active participant in something exciting.  I went to my kitchen to get something and looked out our back window to get a visual update on the crime scene. I saw a man walking in the green belt behind the house next door to the crime scene and then he began to peer around the corner of the fence clearly sharing my desire for an update on what was happening.  

My first thought was that there was no way this was the guy - it was likely a curious neighbor.  That being said, he was acting just suspicious enough.  I check out front of our house and the police had all left.  I decided this warranted what might be the only phone call to 9-1-1 that I have ever made.  I call and explain to the woman on the other end that I watched a man in a white t-shirt and jeans walk suspiciously behind the scene of where an earlier crime had just been committed.  As I was talking to her, I watched the man walk towards our neighbor's house immediately beside us and it appeared he hid under the house. 

I waited what felt like 10 minutes, but was likely 2 or 3 and no officers have arrived (which was amazing since half the Little Rock police force had just been in our hood).  I continued to look out the back window and saw the man approach the crime scene again, walk closer to it this time and then get spooked by some noise and proceed to run away through the greenbelt.  At this point I know it is him.  I call 9-1-1 again and casually recommend that they expedite their arrival to my house.  Then I head out to the front porch with my kazoo tucked in my pants to greet the police and try to keep an eye on which way the guy was headed.

An important realization hit me as I was standing on the front porch, kazoo in pants and waiting for the police to catch the guy in a white cotton shirt and jeans.  I hit me that after I had cleared my house, I had changed into a pair of jeans and taken off my dress shirt so that only a white under shirt remained.  For a moment, I was the criminal.  I ran, and I mean ran, into the house to put on a black jacket and headed back out front.  I saw the guy run across our street and head behind the houses across from us.  I walk across the street, but not any closer than I needed to be and wait for the police.  Finally they show up and thankfully they felt a great sense of urgency.

As I have reflected on what happened next, I realized I assumed the role of the least exciting character in any movie involving the police chasing down a bad guy.  It seems like in every movie of this nature, the police pull up to be greeted by the borderline catatonic elderly woman in a muumuu that without even speaking points the direction the perp just ran.  Even though no movie has ever spent time developing her character, we all know who she is.  She is the crotchety woman who spends all day looking out her window so she can catch the neighbor kids running across her lawn and yell at them for it.  I've realized if Spielberg picks up the rights to make the movie of my afternoon, I'm not going to be played by Hugh Jackman.  No, I'm going to be played by some unknown extra that was recruited earlier that day from a retirement center. 

Back to the story.  The police sprint in the direction I point them (enthusiastically might I add) and I don't see or hear anything for another couple of minutes, until I see the bad guy run back around the front of the house I'm standing next to.  For one split moment I think about pulling out my kazoo and telling him to stop, and then I remember it's been reported he shot at a police officer and although I thought to cover up my white undershirt, I had clearly not thought to put on a bullet-proof vest.  I know, I know - Hugh Jackman would have chased him down and tackled him.  Again, I'm more likely to be played by an elderly woman than Wolverine.  At this point, many more police officers show up and eventually I hear the police apprehend him behind the house he had just run around.

Shortly after they caught the guy, I was approached and thanked by a police officer who had the general demeanor of someone who had just polished off a 6-pack of Red Bull.  I can't blame him.  My heart was racing too.

All of that to say.  For those of you who know me, be prepared to have me retell this story any time you dare step onto our back deck.

And to Spielberg: go ahead and cast me as an old lady, but please give me the dignity of packing heat in my girdle.