Frostbite on New Years

As I promised, I shall tell you the tale of The Police and the Streaker.  I was going to name it The Naked Streaker, but that’s really rather redundant.  This story began long ago.  Back when I was relatively sane because my children were only 2 and 4 years old.  They hadn’t started mouthing off yet and the whining hadn’t broken down my central nervous system to the degree it is now.  I’m going to need a telethon before long.

We used to have a next door neighbor that we genuinely liked.  He was a good sort: the appropriate amount of friendly.  That means that he didn’t stalk us like some of our neighbors do now.  I know that they lie in wait and the minute they see us come home they sprint across the yard or dart across the street.  This is another reason that I want to be a ninja when I grow up.  Or maybe Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace.

After our good neighbor sold his house and moved with his new wife to Alaska (??? Why would anyone do that?  Kurt – can you tell me?  Are there more Sarah Palin’s up there?  I think Alaska might be sneaky like that.)  The house was then purchased by a foundation.  This foundation provides group homes for mentally challenged people.  This is a fine goal and I completely respect people who dedicate themselves to bettering other people’s lives.  I just would rather they didn’t do it next door to my house.  I generally abhor the “not in my neighborhood” mentality, but I do have my limits.

There is one young man, K, that has lived in the house next door (hereby referred to as THND) for several years.  He has the mental capacity of a about a 10 year old, so he’s functioning and such.  My Honey made the mistake of being nice to him and now my husband is his best friend.  He will literally knock on our door and want to know if My Honey can come out.  Serves him right for being so nice to people all the time.  I keep telling him that bitchy is the new black, but he doesn’t listen and now look what it got him.

ANYWAY, many of the residents of THND aren’t as functioning as K.  There have been many times when I will look out the window and literally see them chasing other residents down the street.  When I called to complain about someone removing my mail from the box, the lady at the foundation said that they weren’t allowed out of the house.  After I stopped laughing, I informed her that as I was looking outside the window at that precise moment, a resident was banging his head on the telephone pole.  I wish I was kidding.  The foundation in charge has been remiss in monitoring the residence and the staff.

Fortunately, all the visits from the police, including twice when I’ve called, not withstanding, there have been some funny moments.  Like the time two years ago. 

We woke up relatively early on New Year’s Day and made breakfast.  For some reason I no longer recall, My Honey had gone out to the front yard – it was probably to get the newspaper or something.  He then hustled back into the house rather quickly and shut the curtains. 

“Where is the phone?” he asked.  He had a strange look about him.

“In the kitchen.  Why?” So I’m a little nosey, but he looked strange.

“Hi, 911?” he said into the receiver, “I need to report a streaker.”

“What?!” I bellowed, racing to the window.  “Who’s streaking?”  I couldn’t see anything but a brief flash of white that slid out of my sight.  Stupid window.  I went to the family room to see if I could see any better.

My Honey gave the 911 operator our address.  Coincidentally, the man on the other line lived in our neighborhood, too.  He seemed appropriately appalled at the prospect of a streaker.  The operator began asking more specific questions while the police were in route.

Operator: Can you describe the gentleman.

My Honey: Uh, yeah.

Operator: Height?

My Honey: About 6′ or 6′ 1″. 

Operator: Weight?

My Honey: Maybe 350 pounds.  Yeah, it’s not pretty.

Me: Oh ew.  (I closed the blinds again.  Nobody needs to see that.)

Operator: Hair?

My Honey: ALL OVER!

By now I’m laughing pretty hard and so is My Honey and the operator.  I see a flash of clothes as the orderlies from THND chase after the streaker.

Operator: What’s he doing now?

My Honey: Running down the street, waving his arms in the air, and yelling ‘Wheeeeee’.

The police did arrive and the streaker was captured and clothed, which was mildly disappointing.  It certainly made for an entertaining morning.