When we first moved into our house almost four years ago, we didn't really make an effort to get to know our neighbors. Because Zoey was just one and Ella was working late most evenings, we spent what little free time we had painting, unpacking, and making the house our home.
We had a dog at the time. Because I didn't want to be hassled taking her for a walk while pushing Zoey in the stroller, we were having a fence built. Only it didn't go as well as planned.
Our realtor had recommended a handyman. "He's a nice guy who's had troubles in the past, but he's really trying to get his life together." So I hired the guy.
He came out one day and dug the holes for the posts. He told me he'd come out the next day and put them in the ground. But he didn't come.
And he didn't come the next day. Or the next day. Or the next day. After two weeks of listening to the dude's excuses, I called my realtor. "Um, yeah," he said. "I've been meaning to call you. The guy stole one of my television sets today."
Nice!
Even though I am quite the cynic, there are times when I can be totally naïve and trusting (and when that backfires, it only reinforces my disbelief in my fellow man). When I bought all the items, the fence builder came along with me to tell me what I needed. I paid for the items and took all the posts with me and about a fifth of the two by fours. I put the Work Order/Pickup for the rest of the materials in his name. The next morning, he was supposed to pick up the remaining two by fours and all the hardware I had purchased.
So after hearing what my realtor said about the dude, Ella, Zoey, and I hopped into our car and drove to the store where I purchased the items to see what could be done. I found out that all the items I didn't have in my possession had been returned a week before and exchanged for gift cards.
I was livid.
The manager took me back to his office and told me I would have to fill out a police report. A cop finally showed up forty-five minutes later. By this time, Zoey was getting cranky so the cop told me he could give me a ride home after we filled out the paperwork. Ella and Zoey left.
The cop and manager told me that because I was stupid enough to put the work order in the guy's name, there was nothing the store could do. "But I paid for it! Don't you need a receipt to return something?" I yelled.
"Yes," the manager assured me. "But the guy was given gift cards instead of cash, so it wasn't technically a return. Plus, the work order was in his name." He later went on to tell me he had noticed this kind of activity was becoming more and more frequent in his store (yet he had done nothing to stop it).
"So what options do I have?" I asked.
"Given the fact that all you can give me is the guy's name and his roommate's cell phone number, there's not much we can do," the cop said. "We'll file a report and 'look' for the guy, but it'll be very low priority. You could try taking him to Small Claims Court."
Basically, I was screwed.
So after I directed a few more expletives at the store manager and myself for being so stupid and trusting, I decided it was time to go. I got in the back of the cop car and we started driving home.
We pulled up in front of my house. When the officer came over to let me out of the backseat, I noticed twenty people standing at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. They were probably partying only moments before, but at that very instant, every single one of them was staring at me.
That's right! The entire neighborhood's first impression of me was getting out of the back of a police car. Rock!
As we were walking to my door, the cop said to me, "I'm not really sure what to do about this. It's a thin line, but I probably should confiscate the lumber you have in your possession because it's been involved in a fraudulent return."
"WHAT!" I screamed. "Not only am I out several hundred dollars worth of lumber and hardware, you're telling me you're going to take what little I do have? That doesn't make sense!"
The cop thought about it for a minute and then said, "Hold on a sec. Let me call another officer and ask him what I should do."
But instead of talking to my cop over the walkie-talkie thing, the other cop decided to drive his unmarked-yet-still-clearly-a-police car over to my house. Must've been a slow night (but not slow enough for someone to go out and try to find the bastard who stole all my stuff).
So to recap: there were now TWO police cars in front of my house while the entire neighborhood was standing two hundred yards away, gossiping and painting worst case scenarios in their minds.
After the cops shot the shit for a few minutes, they turned their attention back to me. "You can keep all the stuff you have," the second cop said. "But we'll have to take pictures of it for the report."
"If you want to take pictures of my lumber, that's fine with me," I replied. "Do you need a camera?"
"No. I'll have to call for one."
"No problem," I replied. So the cops went back to talking to each other while I sat on the curb wondering what my neighbors were saying about me. Lights had come on in the houses of people who weren't attending the block party. I waved sarcastically at the teenager staring at me from her window across the street (and if you're not sure how to wave sarcastically, email me and I'll give you step-by-step instructions).
And then what shows up at the front of my house?
A Crime Scene Van.
So I had a police car, an unmarked police car, and a crime scene van parked in front of my house while the entire neighborhood was watching. Tongues were wagging!
So I opened my garage and they took pictures. The cops had been aware that the neighborhood was watching, so we started talking about that. "They probably think I killed my wife," I said. "You're probably right," the crime scene photographer said.
Because I had finally reached a point of not caring anymore, I asked one of the cops if he would put me in handcuffs, put me in the back of the police car, and drop me off at the top of the street. At this point, I decided I really wanted to give the neighbors something to talk about.
But he wouldn't do it.
The next morning, Ella said, "You, me, and Zoey should probably go out in the front yard and play so that the neighborhood knows everything's ok. God only knows what they're saying about you." "Let them talk," I said.
Twenty minutes later, a neighbor came to our door, wanting to know what had happened the night before.
***
This is just one item in a long list of reasons why I tell Ella if she ever wants to move, she'll have to kill me first. We had one bad experience after another during the time we sold our old home and bought this one. Some day I'll get around to telling you guys the rest.
Song of the day: Uninvited by Alanis Morissette
Hello. My name is Chag Holland. I am a major pop culture junkie and music lover. I like to photograph weird things. I am a conspiracy theorist and an amateur cryptozoologist. I am an avid sports fan and follow the Yankees, Panthers, and Tar Heels. I am a stay-at-home dad and have two wonderful children and one beautiful wife. I write about all this stuff.
