A few years ago, some strange guy rang my doorbell. I was in the process of scrubbing the bathroom at the time, and answered the door in a very gruff manner, waving my non-latex gloves around angrily as I asked what on earth could possibly be important enough to interrupt naptime. I had heard of a string of burglaries in our neighborhood, and the general consensus at the time was to answer the door even if you were not expecting anybody, because if you didn't and it was the burglars, they would just break into your house. Even if that man at my door was not one of the guilty parties, I mentally assumed he was guilty and treated him as such.
I barely cracked the door open and kept my foot firmly planted behind it while demanding to know his business. I had actually seen him on my next-door neighbor's front porch through my open bathroom window as I scrubbed the toilet, and had overheard snatches of his conversation about doing home repairs. He proceeded to feed me some cock-and-bull story about trying to locate a car that had been for sale on my street, and he was trying to find out how much it cost. Now first of all, I had been a teacher and was also a mother. My "liar, liar, pants on fire" alarm was beeping wildly. Secondly, I instantly suspected him of illegal motives since I had overheard a completely different story when he was next door. Thirdly, he was talking faster than anyone I had ever heard in my life, and past experience taught me that could be a sign of trouble. So I did what any protective mother would do when she had no other means to protect her kidlets from a big, bad guy who might try to break into her house: I lied. I smiled sweetly, told him I thought I knew which car he meant and said that it was actually parked about four blocks away from us up the street. Then I closed the door, watched him slowly meander back to his car, converse with someone inside it, and then drive away in the opposite direction. Then I called first the cops to report the suspicious behavior, and then my neighbor to tell her to be wary of people like that.
Ever since that day, I have kept a somewhat suspicious eye out for anything that seems out of place in my neighborhood. Given that one of the houses across the street from me has been vacant for the entire nine years we have lived here, you never know whether something fishy will occur. I have also researched the registered sex offenders living nearby (I highly suggest anyone with kidlets do the same), and there are four of them within my one square mile town. They might have served their time and are living impeccable lives right now, but that does not mean I will let down my guard. I'm sorry, but I just don't trust people.
So when I was putting my cordless phone back in its cradle today and saw a flash of bright orange out of the corner of my eye, I went to the window for a closer look. Someone was standing directly across the street from me and talking with one of my neighbors. His bright orange shirt could have blinded anyone within a ten-mile radius. I went to turn away, since it is none of my business if my neighbors converse with others who must dress in the dark, but Mr. Bright Orange left my neighbor's porch and headed to the vacant house. Hmmm.
Mr. Bright Orange had some sort of name tag, or something that appeared to be one, hanging from what looked like a shoelace around his neck. He also held a very official-looking clipboard. Having recently read more than my fair share of murder mysteries, I immediately believed that he was one of the Whodunnits and was attempting to look official in order to fool everybody. But who on earth would do that while wearing clothes that could be seen from space? My murder mysteries were clearly failing me on that point. It must be a diversionary tactic to have people pay sole attention to his garb instead of what he actually looked like. Right?
After receiving no response to his knock at the vacant house, the gentleman in question moved to the next house along that side of the street. Now, that particular house used to have a more than slightly crazy woman living there. Seriously. One of the other neighbors told me she had been released from a mental hospital when funds were cut. Whether or not this is true, I have no idea, but she used to mutter to herself, pace up and down the sidewalk, and stop and stare at random houses for twenty minutes at a time. I have not seen her for awhile, but I remain wary of her house just in case. Mr. Orange Shirt knocked at that door, and gained admittance into the house once someone answered.
At this point, I decided I was not going to watch any further. First of all, it was really none of my business. Secondly, I figured that if the guy in the bright clothing was trying anything illegal, anyone who let him into that house was more than a match for him. The unfortunate thing is that my brain is now working in overdrive, wondering who is the more at-risk individual here: Mr. Day-Glo Clothing or the person who let him into that house. The only crime I actually saw committed was one against fashion, and I am not exactly a member of the fashion police in my fuddy-duddy stay-at-home mom clothes.
I hope all of the concerned parties are safe. No one wants crime in their neighborhood. I am giving myself a new task as a direct result of my observations today. I must find a mystery that has someone innocent who wears flourescent clothing so that I do not automatically assume guilt if I should see that person again. I just hope that whatever book might have such a character does not also have him mysteriously disappear after entering a house when a dubious individual opens the door.
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