As I mentioned in my white trash post, we live in an amazing neighborhood, not fancy, but amazing nonetheless. This neighborhood is where the criminals like to frequent, as they scour the parameter for new birthday presents on wheels and plumbing tools that go for big bucks at the local pawn shops. We've been hit several times, losing almost every new bike we've ever purchased and Gary has lost countless pieces of expensive equipment. Consequently, one of Gary's favorite pastimes is ... catching the bad guy.
Last night was not unlike many other nights that have come and gone. Let me preface this by saying that we have a home alarm system that is set every night and we have motion detector lights that illuminate the entire surrounding area as any cat makes a movement in the evening shadow. We also have a great guard dog and the newest addition ... the rooster. This does not, however, relinquish Gary from his need to protect his property and this is when Gary puts on his cape and is at his best.
He had just gotten home from work at about midnight. He winds down from work by playing a game of "Call of Duty" as he practices his aim just in case he is called to war. That's when he saw the motion detector lights on the driveway. He darts from his seat and stands on the hearth of the fireplace trying to catch a view of what created the motion. There he was, Caucasian male, approximately 23 years old, on a bike (probably ours from the heist of 07) and the most incriminating of all ... wearing a backpack (my guess is that he wasn't a student). The next ritual is what happens each time a criminal act is eminent.
Gary takes off down the hall, grabs his weapon of choice (this varies and I will not incriminate my sole provider), runs out the door setting the alarm system off, and then (our favorite) he becomes a human siren. In his loudest, most annoying voice possible, he portrays a police car as if it were in hot pursuit. Of course this scares off any criminal (in truth, the motion detector lights had probably already done that), but this is just the beginning.
It is now about 1:00 a.m., and Barney Fife, I mean Gary hops in his truck and begins calling all of his cohorts (friends with other various weapons that rarely get to be used) to join him in some action. I apologize to all of the wives who have been awakened as their husbands were called to join Gary in manly night games. Soon we have at least four vehicles running amok as they use their high tech cellular devices to coordinate their destinations and close in on the
perp.
Last night, the perpetrator was located, police were called, helicopters hovered over our home (oddly enough this is just a gentle hum anymore) police cars came in triplicate and yet again, Gary has another story to share.
2:00 a.m., he bids farewell to his friends in uniform and civilians with similar dreams ... and resumes his game of "Call of Duty" waiting for his next true call. 5:00 a.m., he is up and playing the role of husband, father and plumber by day ... watch dog by night.
Is this what they call a mid-life crisis?
