(Clark)
The police scanner was on, orange sherbet was in my hands, and the cul-de-sac in view from my bedroom window was cluttered with emergency vehicles.
The ideal standards for the last Friday night of the Summer.
I knew the situation like the back of my hand:
There were two people living in a small, white, one-story house that was right in direct view from my room. Their names were Tiffany and Jordan. Tiffany was, not to be cliche, but; hot, blond, busty, and single. Every man’s dream. She lacked a personality and was a raging alcoholic.
Jordan, on the other hand, was her seven year old son. He had bright blond hair and a beautiful, crooked smile. He lived with his mom all the time, but his sister lived with their dad.
Her name, if I remember correctly, was Hillary.
Hillary was in my history class for a semester, but she left to go live with her dad in Oak Harbor and I never saw her again.
I thought she was really quite adorable.
Being the nosy neighbor I am, I found out that during the summer she would come to her mom’s house every Friday night and stay there until Saturday afternoon.
Most of her ventures over here result in the police coming by, the fire department, an ambulance, or child protection agencies to take her back to her dad. I sit by my window every Friday night, eating my orange sherbet, and try to figure out what exactly is going on that night.
I had trouble figuring out tonight’s happenings.
The police scanner buzzed to attention. “Eh, we are parading the site of the caller. We’ve knocked on the door but no one’s answered. We can hear two ladies arguing from the outside, we might have to bust the door down.”
A police car pulls into the cul-de-sac.
“We have a 10-10 right about now. 10-6 for further information.”
“10-4.”
I have familiarized myself enough with the police slang to understand that they said, “We have a possible crime right about now. Standby for further information.”
The other dude responded with a simple acknowledgement of his presence.
A firefighter gets out of the truck, axe in hand, and walks up the driveway.
I wonder what is going through Jordan’s little head right about now.
“Possible 10-52.” That would be a dispute.
“Seems to be a regular for this family. Sheesh.”
“Oh officer, you are just too kind!”
That would be the ever so bubbly voice of Tiffany. She has her arm wrapped around a finely dressed policeman. She gives him a pat on the back.
I lean closer to the opened window to try to get a clearer sound of what they’re saying.
“Are you sure this is what your son reported to you, ma’am?”
“I’m positive.”
“This is a huge accusation.”
Small dispute, I’m guessing. Jordan is always worried about his rebellious sister and alcoholic mother. Whenever they get really angry or start hitting, Jordan goes and dials the magic three numbers.
“I’m positive, officer. I even talked to the neighbors.”
“Who called the police this morning...”
“I know, I know, I was a little drunk. I’m sorry about that.” She still was, for that matter. She usually was. “I try not to be, its just hard to deal with this,” she says through a small burp.
“I will keep note of what he said, ma’am, and if there is anything else that happens, please let us be the first to know.” He walks down the driveway as Tiffany runs back into her house.
“We have a case of 10-35. Seven year old accused an eleven.”
I turned off the scanner quickly and sat with wide eyes. If that was true, this case would be a lot bigger than a dispute, and the emergency vehicles might be coming here a lot more often than Friday nights.