Second Thoughts About The Police Party

Last night, as is my usual procedure, I arrived home about 11 p.m., crossed through the house from the back stairs and went down the front stairs in order to gather the daily mail. I was already down to the mailbox when I noticed a police cruiser with its lights out stationed directly across the street. Odd, I thought.

When I returned to the house, I informed E. (still quite ill with either bronchitis or pneumonia) about the police vehicle. In five minutes, the one police cruiser had become three police cruisers. In fact, there seemed to be a kind of police tailgate party going on directly in front of my house. There was lots of laughter, and they were taking flash photos of something in one of their trunks. The hubbub was alarming enough that E. came from her sickbed to check it out.

All was not well. One of my new neighbors in the apartment building to my west was beginning to wail, to shout at a compatriot in the police car, and to approach the police party. One of the cops told her, "I'm sorry, you are not allowed to come. We have no discretion in the matter." My neighbor shouted, "I'm not going to press charges!" So, presumably this was a domestic issue that got out-of-control, or something. Apparently my neighbor was having second thoughts about having called the police, but what is done, is done.

Even though it was a Very Bad Night for my neighbor, it was just another evening for the cops. Policing is mostly pretty-solitary work, and I'm sure it was nice for them to meet their colleagues and gab a bit (after all, they had no discretion in this case).

Revived a bit, E. started commenting about the situation. Sensing her need to criticize something, and hoping to distract her from criticizing the neighbors, I whipped out my new, exciting "Lady Gaga at Power Balance Pavilion" DVD (apparently 'gaga' means crazy in Tagalog, or something akin to that). E. amused herself with Gaga criticisms like: "She's ugly; completely dry; no musical sense whatsoever; she's just pounding that piano - I bet she can't even play; not as good as Madonna", and other such spot-on sentiments.