No place like home
“Sir?” a voice asked from the golf course. “Sir?”
My husband and I were sitting with two friends under a canopy by a pool near a palm tree next to a fairway in Arizona.
We all turned toward the voice, expecting to see a golfer asking if we’d seen where a ball landed.
Instead, we saw five or six SWAT team members, ARs and handguns drawn, being dragged down the fairway by an enthusiastic German shepherd.
“Sir, have you seen anyone walking this way? How long have you been outside?” the officer asked.
We had seen no one walking and we’d been outside all afternoon — except when we went for a short walk around the neighborhood.
The gaggle of black-clad law enforcement officers continued down the fairway.
It was one of those “Did that just happen?” moments. Followed by “Should we still be sitting out here?” The canvas canopy didn’t feel very bulletproof.
We went inside as our host spoke with neighbors in the front yard where he learned there had been a carjacking.
They were looking for the guy near the house in which we were staying. They had searched the box of the Ford F150 we had rented — guns drawn — and found nothing.
We began to experience that odd tension between wanting to go outside to see what was happening versus feeling compelled to lie flat on the living room floor in case gunfire erupted.
My husband and I reflected on our walk around the neighborhood.
We actually had encountered one person who seemed “not to fit.” A short, stocky guy with a full beard wearing camo was walking down the middle of the street. All the other people we met were on the sidewalk walking normally.
We checked the local crime news to see if there was a description of the suspect.
There was not.
Our hostess said, “Around here you have to kill somebody to make the news.”
That’s when I decided Arizona is a wonderful place to visit in the middle of a Minnesota winter, but I like our crime better.
“Complainant reported round bale fell off trailer on 141st Street.”
There’s no place like home.