S.W.A.T.

We once lived across the street from a juvenile delinquent my husband referred to as "Lurking Thing". Lurking Thing was large, dumpy, and greasy. He cursed his helpless parents in public; played loud music from his open window; and invited undesirables to his front yard at all hours. His house was shot at during a drive-by shooting and his dog killed a neighbor's puppy. He did not buy fireworks for July 4th - he bought them for July 5th......to explode at midnight.....one at a time. We would watch from our bedroom window, and hope for his arrest (or execution-style murder). But night followed night as he sported freely in his yard, forcing my husband to step outside in his underwear to discuss societal norms.

We were surprised, nonetheless, when Luke exited our home one afternoon to discover armed men hiding behind vehicles, trees, and bushes on our street, their guns trained on Lurking Thing's domicile. He had finally attracted the popo. Luke was ordered back inside where we took up stake-out positions at the front windows (only to be ordered to close our blinds). Evidently, Lurking Thing was either barricaded with his gun or loose with his gun. Yawn.

My husband called from a nearby intersection, informing us he was unable to return home because of a police blockade at our neighborhood entrance. "Cool!" is what we shouted. But one gets bored and hungry surreptitiously watching the fuzz stalk inch by inch toward a criminal target, so we reasoned it was totally time to grill our dinner. As Luke clanked around in the backyard, with a smoking grill alerting everyone of our doings, a soldier crawled from his position behind our front-yard tree to our backyard fence to shut down all food operations. Luke attempted to inform the officer that Lurking Thing had probably run into the woods behind our house, but we were again ordered back inside.

Suddenly, our hostage situation was not so amusing. While Lurking Thing ran free, we were prisoners, and now that we had no other option but for Luke to pan-fry our steaks, we felt we were eating prison rations as well. And my husband, eager to end a long, hot day of work, kept calling to inquire if The Lurking Thing had been shot yet. While we spoke, I witnessed, through a small slit in the blinds, one of those cobra unit vans trundle by. The insignia was that of a coiled cobra, so I guess that means we were saved.

Several quasi-soldiers, wearing bullet-proof vests and carrying riot shields, eased out and tightened into a phalanx that crept with agonizing slowness toward Lurking Thing's front door. When they were close enough, they burst in, fanning out in all directions. We watched breathlessly until, one by one, they returned empty-handed to the front yard. Lurking Thing had, apparently, evaded capture by fleeing to the woods behind our house.

If only we'd known.