My friend and coworker, “K,” who has now consented to be revealed as “Kim” (gasp!!!!), came to my apartment one evening after work recently. She brought her dog, Hope, an adorable German shepherd who, despite many endearing qualities, looks nearly identical to the DEA dog who conclusively sniffed out the scene during my arrest in Ohio in June of 2010.Kim arrived at the door of my apartment at around 10pm, with Hope aggressively fighting the confinement of a leash that was tethered to her neck. I related to the little animal. “Little” may not be an appropriate description of Hope, at least by LA’s ever skewed sense of normal. Upon greeting Kim and the German shepherd at my door, Hope struck me as being something of a dogzilla, when compared against the perceived normalcy here of shoebox-sized canines that seem to serve more as accessories to vanity, rather than fellow inhabitants of valuable life.
Once inside the apartment, Kim let Hope off of her leash. Hope assessed the room, then immediately launched herself into a grizzly assault on my most cherished stuffed animal, “Turtle,” who lay defenseless on my bed. She chomped him from my pillow without hesitation or mercy, then headed into the kitchen to finish him off. For a moment, it looked like that was going to be the end of Turtle.
Turtle is a master of survival. He should be a felon now because he traveled with me during my darker days, but he narrowly escaped indictment at the outset of the arrests and was ultimately never charged as an accomplice. Turtle’s luck continued when I was finally able to pry him from Hope’s jaws and hide him in a cupboard for the remainder of the evening.
Kim and I went outside to my backyard to get some fresh air. We were deep in conversation when Kim stopped mid-sentence and looked past me, speechless. I turned around to see what had caught her attention. A dark, sweaty face stared down at us from the window of a decrepit, neighboring apartment building that towers over the backyard. The depraved creature in the window was lost in a frenzy of self-pleasure as he stared down at us, taking in our horrified reactions. “Oh, Jesus.” “Is that? No…” “That’s—oh, God, that’s disgusting. No.” “Ew. Um, we can see you. Really?!” The bastard decided that he wasn’t ready to stop masturbating, so we decided that we were ready to go inside and call the police.
After Googling the phone number, I called the “non-emergency” contact number for the local police in our area. I finally got an officer on the phone and jumped into an explanation. “So, this might be a longshot, but I want you to know that we are willing to go back out there, and maybe one of your guys can skulk around in the bushes, or, you know, hide in the shadows. We are willing to lure him back to the window, and then, right when he starts going at it again, you can, I don’t know– maybe one of you can just… shoot him.” Listening to every word that I spoke into the phone, Kim’s hand went over her mouth, then she leaned over to bury her face, shaking her head at me. The officer on the phone line met my suggestion with stunned silence, then, “Okay… Let me transfer you.”
Forty-five minutes of waiting on the phone and two hours of subsequent waiting in my apartment later, two police officers knocked on my door. Kim had made the wise suggestion that I “put some pants on!” prior to their arrival—meaning that I may want to consider covering up my ankle bracelet before I invite officers of the law to come into my place of residence and expect them to listen to my account of some sordid neighborhood wrongdoing, rather than look for a reason to drag me back to the Big House by my ankle bracelet.
Kim and I took the officers back to the yard and showed them the scene of the crime. They questioned us about the nature of the exposure, then assured us that they were on their way to pay the pervert a stern visit. I was satisfied to know that he was about to find himself being watched as well—only by the police, and not by some sweaty, disgusting pig staring down, half naked, from a window. What a bastard. If I wasn’t a felon and if it wasn’t illegal for me to possess firearms, I could have the option to arm myself to the teeth for future visits to the backyard. I may not be able to carry a weapon with bullets now, but damn it if I wouldn’t have the blessing of the law to waddle out to the back with my lawn chair in one hand and an antique crossbow in the other. I could just kick back in my chair with a savage, rusty arrow pulled back at the ready and pointed directly at the window, waiting for that sick-minded deviant to crawl back to his mount and take a gander at the yard…
132 days to go…