Lens, Brush, Quill

There sure was a party goin’ on in the house diagonally behind ours. It was loud – not rowdy loud, just loud because there were probably two hundred people jammed into the house and backyard. I hit the shower at 2300, figuring I’d give ’em ’til midnight before I pulled the trigger, and when I walked into the bedroom at 2322, it was quiet as death. Odd, I thought. Somebody must have beat me to it and called the cops to shut it all down.

A few minutes later, from the distance an angry male voice, “Get the fuck out of the house! Now!” Muffled shouting and quarreling between male voices, lots of “f-bombs.” A couple of girly shrieks. Quiet. Suddenly I am aware of rustling sounds in my backyard. I look out the (second floor) bedroom window and in the pitch black I barely make out a bunch of people stumbling through the yard, using the glow from their cellphone screens as flashlights. Not very effective, I see.

I head down to the kitchen to hit the backyard floods, and on the way downstairs, I notice the street in front of my house flooded with flashing red and blue light. Hmmm.  Not good.

I turn on the floods, and without checking to see if the trespassers had scattered like roaches, I spin around and go out the front door in time to see a Mill Creek officer stabbing a clip into her AR-15.  Jesus.

I’m out of breath because I have been running through the house, and she probably thinks I’m ready to pee myself with fright.  I tell her where the racket is coming from, and how to get through our yard (which has no fence).  She tells me there’s been a report of someone waving a gun around, “and we’re on it!” as she heads behind our house.  Through our family room window, I see her guide about half a dozen people over the fence of the property behind ours, questioning them as they drop over.  Methinks an underage drinking investigation is imminent.

Our backyard floods are still on, and the officer takes a position on our deck, AR-15 to her shoulder, squinting into the darkness. It occurs to me that being on the deck is not a good idea because it makes her a well-lit target, but she needs the light on in order to see into the trees in the adjacent yards. She must be thinking the same thing, because asks to borrow a stool, and I give her our six foot ladder so she can take a closer position with her weapon over the fence, pointing toward the source of all the noise and the stream of refugees.  In the dark, she reminds me of Jules from Flashpoint.

I told her that I left the deck door open, “so if you need to retreat quickly, just come in.”  She laughed and shot me one of those looks you give to hopelessly naive people who have just said something so impossibly quaint and sweet you just want to pinch their little pink cheeks and pat their little round heads.

The Snohomish County Sheriff arrives. Then K-9. A male officer waves me outside and asks me to kill the deck light and go inside and stay away from the windows.  In his brown shirt, he looks like Hitler Youth – lean, sinewy, blonde, square jawed, perfect teeth and all serious business. Minutes pass, I hear fence pickets being kicked down, and seconds later, shouting. “Get down on the ground! Get down on the ground!” Just like an episode of Cops, I swear.

More minutes pass, then suddenly lots of yelling and chaos from the party house, accompanied by loud snapping/popping sounds. “Get your hands up! Hands up!”  The dogs are roaring.  “You! Over here! Get down on the floor!” The sound moves further away, that is, to the front of the house, with the action no doubt spilling out onto 33rd Ave SE.  I’m sure their neighbors were delighted!

In front of our house, on our street, I see more tactical officers moving swiftly through adjacent yards, heading toward the epicenter of excitement.  Hmmm.  This must be what Liv means when she calls for backup.

Quiet again. Then at about 0015, searchlights cutting through the trees.  A loud, baritone voice over a loudspeaker: “Come out of the house, through the front door, with nothing in your hands.” This goes on every 30 seconds for almost an hour, with variations.

“The house is completely surrounded. Come out of the house, through the front door, with nothing in your hands.”  I burst out laughing, because it sounded like dialogue from a B-movie!  “We’re not going away. Come out of the house now.”  With every iteration, he sounds more tired and bored  – as if he might absolutely expire from the mindless tedium of repeating these silly phrases over and over, and hearing them echo through the endless canyon of closed garage doors and faux Craftsman architecture.

Apparently, somebody did come out, because there was a brief cacophony of yelling, “Get your hands up! Get down!” Then a long, tortured series of commands over the loudspeaker. Apparently, they wanted him to walk backwards: “Face the house!  Walk back to the Police car!  No!  Walk back to the car! Stop! Walk to your left!  Stop! Walk back to the car!  Hands up! Keep your hands up!”  I’m guessing this is probably a combination capture and sobriety test.  Saves time, I’m sure.

Then the booming commands resumed, ever more fatigued with boredom. “We know you’re in there. All your friends have come out. Come out of the house, through the front door, with nothing in your hands.”  And, “C’mon.  Let’s end this.” And so on. Finally, close to 0200, another brief flurry of shouts – “Get your hands up!” and such.  A whimper, not a bang.  Which is just as well, of course.

Officers begin casually drifting back to their cruisers parked on our street, a little chitchat between them – how’s the ol’ ball & chain?  The rugrats?

The dogs are loaded into the back seats,  and off they go. Peace and tranquility gently settles back down over our little Mill Creek.

Now, this is a good neighborhood with fairly well-heeled residents. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that the parents who own that house were out of town, and in a flash of irrational exuberance, junior decided to hold a little slumber party. After a few drinks, a few blunts, then a few more drinks, someone with more testosterone than brains decides to show off the penis substitute he had stuffed in his waistband.  A freak out ensues, someone drops a dime, and before you can say “Holy shit, Batman!” there’s a multi-agency full-response roll-out.

Boy Howdy! I gotta get me a police scanner!

Comments:

Serena Tabor wrote:
Holy crap. You need a fence! And a police scanner. 😀

Kelly,
Actually, I was glad we didn’t have one, because they probably would have blown through it if I was not home, alert and involved. They needed to set up a perimeter from all sides. That way they could truthfully say, “Give yourself up. You’re completely surrounded.”

“Come ‘n get me coppers! Ha HAAAAAA!!!”

Mi

Paul Adamson wrote:
I’m sure you’re glad you moved from that dangerous neighborhood in Everett?

Paul,
LOL! Actually, I was thinking something like that when everything was unfolding! On the other hand, I’m a lot more confident in the response of community based Police (Mill Creek) than I was in the SnoCo Sheriff in Everett.

True story: Last winter, Camille and I saw two guys in camo fatigues walking onto the elementary school property (next to our development) carrying rifles. We called the Sheriff, and NOTHING HAPPENED. When we would have some kind of trouble in Marino Estates, we’d call 911, and a deputy would call back with this, “Aw, do I really have to come all the way out to your house? Jeez!” attitude. Eff that. If I call you, drag your butt over here, cuz I need to talk to you, and you work for us.

Michael