I had a dream last night. I had a dream in which I was sleeping soundly in my room. I was fast asleep until shortly after 3am, when I awoke to the sound of a voice calling in the still darkness of the big, empty house in which I am renting a small room. A voice that I couldn’t make out, but that sounded close. I had opened my window to let in the night air, and concluded that it was coming from outside. As I laid my head back on my pillow, I heard the voice once more, this time a little louder, a little more insistent, and it was accompanied by a loud rapping noise, like knuckles on a hardwood door. But not my door. Not my bedroom door.
But from inside the house this time, distinctly echoing in the second story hall outside my room, I heard the voice accompanied by rapping. Again, louder. I stumble out of bed in a daze and in my still unfamiliar room, grope first for my pants, then for the floor lamp. I continue to hear the knocking and now footsteps on the stairs. I can make out the voice, shouting now just outside my door. It’s a tense, nervous shout, but controlled: “Hello. HAR-fuhd Pol-EECE.”
Police! My mind begins to race. In my house? At three a.m.? Shouting and knocking just outside my door? I must be dreaming. No. I am not dreaming. This is not a dream. The Hartford Police are outside my door now, which is closed against the second story hall of the big lonely house in which I am renting a room and still feel like a stranger. Viv–I think–the owner of the house, was supposed to call me today for a favor, but never did. Why hasn’t she answered the police? Isn’t she home? Is she not hearing this racket? Oh my god, something’s happened to her! Something awful has happened and I am the summer boarder, the drifter, the prime suspect, and suddenly I know the cops are here to find me.
And so I call out, knocking from the inside of my own door and feeling somehow like an intruder, “Hello, I am in here. Can I help you?” And I slowly open the door to three bristling officers swinging the beams of their flashlights against the darkness of the house, now pouring into my room in a flurry of questions. Who are you? Are you the owner? Do you live here? Who else lives here? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you answer earlier? And a hundred more that I don’t hear because I am still trying to wake up and comprehend the situation. Strangely, I realize that I am calm. I produce my ID. I answer their questions. But I am calm. Good – stay clear and try to focus. Finally, they appear satisfied that I belong in the house they have invaded and begin to explain that they were responding to a prowler call. They had come to the back of the house (for some reason) to find that the back door was open and the screen door unlocked (just as I had left them, thinking that Vivianne, the lady who owns the house, would be home later in the evening). They then took it upon themselves to enter the house and make demands upon the befuddled inhabitant they encountered inside (namely, me).
As they left, I thanked them for their diligence and quickly turned both the button lock and deadbolt. Returning to my room, I just started chuckling to myself. Next time, I will be ready. Next time, in between their questions to me, I will be asking their names, precinct and badge numbers. I will make sure they understand that they’ve crossed the line by barging into a house at night where there is clearly no evidence of a break in or other criminal mischief. I know my rights! I am a student of the law, in fact, and I refuse to be bullied by its so-called enforcers.
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Who am I kidding? There won’t be a next time. From here on out, I’m keeping the doors locked at all times and the house alarm set. The sad part is, it’s not the bad guys I’m worried about.
