LOL, the more I think about this story, the more I fucking hate it.
Cath's phone rang at 1:15 a.m. It's a friend who has just arrived home from an out-of-town trip. She walked into the house and found her back door open. Her husband is deployed, and her kids are asleep in the car. FUCK.
I'll be right over. There's a 99.99% chance that the door was left open by one of the kids on the way out, so it would probably be hasty and annoying to call the police. I'm happy to check it out, but what to bring? No shotgun. The neighbors will see this weird shit and someone -- police, neighbor, whatever -- will do something stupid.
So I grab a can of fucking BEAR SPRAY and head out the door. If you find that it enhances the story, imagine that I am stoned during all of this. Once at the house, I solicit a few details that I hope will help me figure out quickly if the house has been burglarized. I'm ready to go. I pull the safety on my bear spray and enter through the "funnel of death" or whatever doorways are called in these situations.
Of course, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing, and I'm pretty sure that I look like the biggest chump in the entire universe, pivoting around corners, viewing the rooms in sections, but still kinda trying to play it off, bear spray in hand, etc. Jesus. Luckily, only my chump bitch silhouette is visible outside.
The entire time I'm moving through the house, which is very large, I'm stepping around the friend's husband's military gear. I feel profoundly inadequate. It is worth mentioning that he is a no-shit badass, in a very serious way that he doesn't talk about. He finds me tiresome.
I'm a little nervous, despite the relatively low risk of the situation. I tell myself that it's basically a raccoon check. Any bad guys would have split when the car pulled up (unless they holed up in a closet, waiting in ambush, lol!!). I'm a little nervous.
During the "sweep," as I step over another pair of boots, I imagine the husband getting a satellite phone call on the side of a mountain in some godforsaken corner of the Earth, his wife telling him that a friend has JUST been killed in his house -- but she and the kids are okay!
He struggles to process all of this, and he asks whom. And what the fuck happened? She tells him. He breathes a sigh of relief and then lightly chastises her for calling such a wretched sack of vaj. I mean, really, what the fuck is wrong with her? He brought bear spray?
She gasps a bit, and he quickly apologizes, realizing that she was close by when all of this went down. The kids are crying in the background. He can hear them through the static. His wife's friend is now a widow. He turns gentle and supportive. But disgust is written all over his face. He sighs.
So, anyway, yeah, uh, there was nothing in the house. I helped her carry the kids in and went home. But I should be slightly better prepared for that kind of situation, which comes up every so often because it's Norfolk, everyone's deployed all the time, and shit goes bump in the night on occasion.