Bornfamous

You probably think that I don’t post much because I lead a very dull life. Well, I do. But not always.

Here I was a couple of weeks ago, sitting at the computer as usual, when I heard a dog barking outside. Someone must have brought their pooch along to the carwash, I thought. But the barking continued so long and so loud that I decided to peek out the kitchen window, which overlooks vehicles of all types getting wiped down after their shower. I saw no vehicles this time, but I did see two LARGE police dogs on leashes attached to a pair of even larger police officers, all dressed up in black, twirling their cute little joysticks and laughing at each other’s jokes. So young, so handsome. The carwash appeared to have closed a few hours early.

Interesting. Must be something going on over there.

Our neighborhood has some excitement occasionally–a hostage situation here, a car torched there [oh wait, that was here actually, right below my balcony last summer]–so the sight of some heavily armed cops relaxing under my kitchen window was not alarming. I went to Robby’s room to tell him and Emily about our police presence. They were suitably impressed. A few minutes later, I turned on the TV for my daily dose of Ellen but she wasn’t on. Instead, there was BREAKING NEWS on the screen.

Ah, good. Now I’ll find out what’s going on over at the carwash.

What I saw on the screen was not the carwash but a helicopter shot of a familiar-looking rooftop.

I never would have recognized it if I hadn’t checked out my own address the first day Google Maps came out. Omigod! I told Robby to turn on the TV in his room. The news anchor said that there was a possible hostage situation and that the whole neighborhood had been evacuated. Guess they forgot US.

“Police say a man shot at his wife at a stoplight last night,” said the anchor. “Today, an anonymous tipster told police that the husband is holed up in their apartment.”

Oh, great. I had a good idea which apartment was getting all the attention: #12, whose occupant owned the infamous torched Taurus of last summer:

That time, we called 911 and evacuated ourselves along with everyone else in the building [except the manager who slept through the whole thing--it was after midnight--despite repeated phone calls and long, loud door banging.]

The attractive, young single mom who owned the Taurus seemed oddly unemotional about the fact that someone had just sent her a rather emphatic message. I heard it though, loud and clear. I wondered what would come next.

What came next, several months later, was a procession of thuggish, scary-looking men in expensive cars, traipsing in and out of the young woman’s parking spot, talking trash and generally acting as though they owned the place. I thought about complaining to our useless caretaker but remembered that I am the obvious one the thugs would blame–the older, white, middle-class female. And I now have a nice car of my own that I don’t want to see in flames. I kept my mouth shut and politely said hello to the thugs as I passed them in the parking lot. They seemed surprised. Some of them actually said hello back.

What came after that was a domestic dispute, observed from my desk chair overlooking the parking lot:

A car pulls up into the young woman’s space, and one of the thugs gets out of the passenger seat. Then he goes back into the car head first. Then I see a pair of long female legs flailing about under his. Finally the thug and the young woman emerge. He pushes her against the car, chokes her and yells, “Leave me alone!”

Two cops come, interview both of us and go away. She goes downstairs to break into her apartment.

That was a few days before the SWAT team camped with their dogs under my kitchen window.

I went to the window to wave at the nice young officers, who didn’t notice me. I knocked on the glass but still couldn’t get their attention [ed. note: the window doesn't open.] Hmm. Wonder why we haven’t been evacuated? Maybe we’re not in harm’s way, tucked in the back of the building like this? Well, if they didn’t think we needed evacuating, I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer. Besides, “Ellen” was back on.

The doorbell rang about 15 minutes later. Six large police officers in full SWAT gear–shields, helmets and semiautomatic weapons–were at the door.

“I was wondering when you were going to get here,” I said cheerily.

“You need to get out of here,” said the lead cop, seeming annoyed with my perhaps too-loud greeting. “Now.”

“Just a minute,” I said and closed the door. “Robby! Emily!”

We hunted for our flip-flops, I picked up my purse and keys, and out we went. The officers escorted us sternly down the stairs, guns drawn and pointed toward the door and patio of Apartment #12. That’s when it occurred to me that we might actually be in some danger. I told Robby and Emily to go in front of me; they were younger and could get out of harm’s way faster. I didn’t want to hold them up. And not to be a hero or anything but I wanted to cover their backs with my own. I’m responsible for them, after all.

“Can I get my car?” I asked once we were out of the line of fire. “It’s in the back.”

The answer was apparently NO, as we were ushered firmly to the front of the complex. I groaned at the prospect of being out in the hot sun, walking around in my back-killing flipflops for who knows how long. Why didn’t I put on regular shoes?

“I hope she’s not in there,” I muttered to nobody in particular, feeling guilty about being so selfish. Raven could be hurt or even dead right now. The odd thing about tragedy is that the rest of the world, even the part of it that is close by, goes on like nothing is wrong.

There was a yellow police tape across the driveway, and more officers herding us around it. Neighbors stood across the street looking at us. Half a dozen TV cameras were pointed our way. I look terrible. I steered us in the opposite direction. I didn’t want to wind up on the six o’clock news, looking fat and saying something inane like, “I was watching Ellen and heard these dogs barking…”

We walked around the block to avoid the cameras and waited at the supermarket you see at the top of the Google Maps picture, where Robby works and where there is shade and tables to sit at, and where most important there is a bathroom and food. Lots of food. We ate quite a bit, as I recall.

After about 2 1/2 hours, we heard two loud bangs coming from our building across El Cajon Boulevard. Someone said they sounded like some kind of grenades. Later, as we returned to our complex, the last departing officer told us they were flash-bang grenades to stun anyone inside the apartment.

“Was anybody home?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“What if he comes back?”

“Call 911,” the cop said, and drove away.