When my wife, Debbie, and I finally bought a house in 1988 after years of renting, we were just 150 feet from Lower Greenville. It was convenient, relatively cheap and a great starter – OK, two out of three isn’t bad. However, I have come fact-to-face with some of the more notorious sides of living here, and I don’t always like what I see.
We brought home our second child at the end of February, and our daily routine became very non-routine. This meant more time at home with both kids and less time out and about.
One night about 10 p.m., while watching “Aladdin” for the umpteenth time with my oldest daughter, I heard our dogs barking rather loudly. I walked out of the bedroom and saw that two of our dogs had someone pinned in the kitchen corner.
Believe me, this man was not going anywhere very soon.
I yelled to Debbie to hit the panic button on our security system, which I hoped would bring help before the dogs did anything. Debbie, ever mindful of my words, yelled back to me from the bedroom: “Why?”
After I carefully explained that we had unwanted company, she immediately hit every button on the security panel at least twice.
In the meantime, the dogs and I had managed to convince this person, who was obviously drunk and asking for the party next door, to go into the backyard and lie down quietly while I (and my prized six-inch Henckel cooking knife) watched him.
Eventually, the police arrived and booked the intruder into “the tank” for public intoxication. They would not arrest him for burglary because, according to the officer, there was no intent; and, of course, he wasn’t warned prior to entering the unlocked back door that he was trespassing.
I am still scratching my head about that concept.
Weeks later, we started to notice that cars were parking at the retail center across the street under a burned-out lamp on the building. The cars were facing the wrong way (toward the house) and had no front license plates.
After a few minutes, they would signal a car passing in the lot, go off somewhere together, and then come back later that night or the next to practice the ritual again. We even named them: Mr. Red Jeep, Mr. Green Jeep, Mr. Pick Up, Mr. Sports Car, etc.
After calling the police again and again to report “suspicious vehicles,” we found out that this is how drug dealers make contacts with clients. After calling a dealer, a buyer waits for a signal from the dealer, who has told him exactly which space to park in.
One night, the traffic activity bordered on the ridiculous. There was the usual 5:30 p.m. Mr. Pick Up rendezvous, followed by Mr. Motorcycle at 7:30 p.m. Mr. Motorcycle, however, failed to notice Mr. Police Sergeant parked in my driveway.
Mr. Motorcycle ended up giving Mr. Police Sergeant his life story and identification. Mr. Police Sergeant also warned Ms. Store Manager that the store needed to replace the burned-out lamp.
The traffic seems to have stopped, but I have the license plates recorded (and you can see the list on my Internet home page) just in case this starts again. I just hope that these people read this column and take a subtle hint – stay away.
For now, my wife and I have taken some extra precautions. We have a better relationship with most of our neighbors and are trying to organize a crime watch group-. I have put new lights on the front of the house, which despite rumors to the contrary are not so bright that they dim the lights in other houses; they simply overwhelm them.
Maybe now we can sleep better at night.