Once I got back in the house I had a decision to make: provide the cops with the information I had, or take it one step further and see what else I could gather.

I chose the latter.

First up, I called the number for Chris. After a couple rings, “Hello?”

I put on a cheery voice. “Hi, is this Chris ‘Smith’?”

“Uhh, yeah?”

“Hi Chris, what’s your address please?”

“Uhh, it’s seventy-eight thirty… wait, who is this?”

“This is the guy whose house you egged the other night.”

“Nuh uh!” (he seriously said NUH UH)

“That’s not what Girl Jeans said.”

“He’s lying!”

“Well, you can take it up with him, then. Thanks!” I hung up. I flipped through the phone book, found his last name, checked for 783x, sure enough, the little bugger lives two blocks from me!

Next I dialed Cameron. No answer, so I left a message. “Hi, I’m trying to reach Cameron ‘Brown.’ If this is you, please call me back at [number]. Thanks!” I then went on to do other things, so when I came back a half hour later, I saw that Cameron had called back. EVERY FIVE MINUTES. In fact, the phone rang right then.

I answered, and he said, “uh, you said to call you?”

Again, my cheery voice. “Yep! This is Cameron, right?”

“…Yeah?”

“Ok, that’s all I need!”

“For what?”

“The police report.”

“Uh, ok?”

“Thanks!” And I hung up. On a hunch, I looked up his last name. Well I’ll be! This guy lived one block further than Chris.

I put all the info in the report, including their cell numbers, home numbers and addresses, and parents’ names. I dropped the report in the mail, and that was that. I never heard anything from the police, but I’ve not seen those kids around since then.

Damn kids! Get off my lawn!

“My boy says it wasn’t him,” Bar Hag stated.

“Bull!” I shouted.  “I watched the whole thing!”

“My boy don’t lie to me!”

I rolled my eyes.  “Right, I’m sure he’s the picture of honesty.  If it wasn’t him, then who was it, and why did they go into YOUR HOUSE afterward?”  (note: there were a lot more R-rated words in the actual conversation)

Girl Jeans spoke up.  “It wasn’t me!  It was my friends.” I should also note that Girl Jeans stands an easy 4 or 5 inches taller than me.  His hands were shoved deep into his… girl jeans… and he was hunched like he was trying to hide his head in his shirt.  Apparently, I’m a little unsettling when I’m raving.

Girl Jeans goes on to tell me that he was at a nearby park when three of his friends showed up and announced that they had egged one of his neighbors.  He then returned to his house with them; he was the one on the bike.

“Names,” I demanded.

“Uh…” he rattled off three names.

I pointed at him.  “Do you have any idea what egg does to paint?”  He nodded.  “I hope you realize just how lucky you are that this house is brick, and that it came off Ron’s siding.  I don’t want to see those three around here again.  If anything else happens around here, I’m coming after you.  Keep them on a short leash.”  I turned my back and stalked up my driveway.

As they crossed the street, thy passed Matt.  He gave a head nod, then “Sup.”  Just to let them know I wasn’t the only one watching.

About a week or so later, Girl Jeans was hanging out in front of his house with about five other kids.  They were skateboarding and riding bikes up and down the block, and one ballsy kid was riding up and down my and Matt’s driveways.  I got an idea.

I called Matt.  “Dude, I’m gonna go out there and get those names from Girl Jeans again.  Want to come with?”  The answer was an enthusiastic “Hell yeah.”

Matt and I came out of our respective front doors at the same time.  “Sup guys!” he greeted them.  A confused chorus of “sup” responded.

“Girl Jeans!” I said, using his real name.  The shock was clear on his face; he had no idea what our names were, and no idea how we knew his name.  “What were those names you gave me the other day?”  I was standing right in front of him, and he was seated on the curb.  Matt was a few feet to my right.

“What names?”

“Don’t get stupid.  The names of your friends who egged my house.  Any of these guys involved?” I pointed at the other kids.

“No, no, none of them.  The names, uh, are Chris, Cody, and Cameron,” he said, giving the last names as well.

“Phone numbers and addresses,” I said, writing the names on a notepad.

“I don’t have addresses -“

“Real close friends of yours, huh?”

”- but I got Chris and Cameron’s numbers.”  I wrote those down as well.

“Now let me tell you something, Girl Jeans.  This isn’t some game.  I’m taking this seriously because this is a nice block.  I like it here.  And I’m not going to stand for you or your moron friends messing it up for the rest of us.  Every house on this block knows what happened and who was involved.  This is not the place to be fucking around.  Got it?”

“Yeah, ok, fine,” he said, trying to shrug me off.

“Don’t get a fuckin’ attitude with me!  Do you understand that there is a police report on this?”

“I’m not getting an attitude!  Sorry!”

With that, I started to walk away.  Matt then said, pointing at the kid on the bike, “And stay out of his driveway!  And stay out of my fuckin’ driveway, too!”

Next up: The shocking (not shocking) conclusion!

The next morning I was out cutting the grass. Near the corner of my yard where the kids had been the night before, I found a smashed egg in the street. “Ah,” I though. “That must have been what I heard.” On I mowed, mystery solved.

Until I crossed the front walk by the front porch. There, in the grass, was a piece of eggshell. There is now way that shell got there from where it was smashed in the street. To anyone watching me, they saw me suddenly stop moving, mower still running, staring at the little shell in the grass. My eyes drifted up, slowly.

“MOTHERFU-” I said out loud. There was an egg smashed on the wall right under the porch light. Yolk had run all down the brickwork and pooled on the concrete porch. Dried yolk drippings hung from the railing. I stood there, dumbfounded, for a minute or two. I shut the mower down and stood back. Another egg was spattered on the other side of my picture window, all over the brick, but not on the glass. I could see shiny spots on the roof where two more eggs had hit.

I dialed the non-emergency number for the police. “Hi, my house got egged last night, and I know who did it. Could you send someone over when they’re free?” Mad props to the KPD; an officer was in my driveway less than ten minutes later. By that time, I had talked with my neighbor to the north, as one of the roof eggs had splattered across onto his siding. The officer handed me a self-report form and described to me what to do. Fill it out, send it in, and if there is any insurance claim or permanent damage, there would be a citation issued. Otherwise, it would just be filed. Well, okay, not the most ideal resolution (SWAT team assault on the house), but I guess it makes sense.

I’ve mentioned in posts before that we have a pretty close block, here. That afternoon, the neighbors to either side of Bar Hag and the teenage girl to the south of me and I were talking. Kim knew Bar Hag’s name, and the girl knew Girl Jeans’ name. Okay, score one for my side. Matt was incensed, as he lives right next door to Bar Hag and has to listen to them all the time. Someone asks why I haven’t cleaned it off. I say, “I want Girl Jeans to do it. If he does, the report goes in the trash. If he doesn’t, I’ll send it in. But I’m not going to talk to him, I want to go through Bar Hag to take care of this.”

Some time later, Joy and I decided to start cleaning - at least my neighbor’s house. As we were finishing, Bar Hag came home. She couldn’t have fit the nickname better: she looked like she was still drunk from the night before, eyes half-closed, cigarette hanging from her mouth. Music was blaring from her Blazer as she parked, hopping the curb.

I started down the driveway. As she turned toward me with her stupid drunken cow eyes, I lost all my cool. My plan had been to speak with her in a controlled, yet obviously displeased manner, but all of the went right out. I opened my mouth, and instead of “hey Bar Hag, we need to talk about your son,” I said, no - shouted, “the next time your kid and his fucking friends eggs my house I’m going to have ‘em fucking arrested!”

“What?”

“Your kids and his buddies egged my house last night!”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them!”

“Whattya want me to do about it?”

I was speechless. Luckily, Joy joined in, “You’re the adult! Take some responsibility!”

Bar Hag shot back, “Call the cops, see if I care.”

I said, “I already did!”

“Good for you!” and she went into her house.

I was so mad. Furious. I went up on the roof, though, to clean the eggs from up there. Matt came home from dinner and saw that Bar Hag was back. I pointed at her truck and yelled across the street, “Whattya want me to do about it?”

Matt said, “Dude are you serious?” He stalked across her yard, up to her front door, and began pounding on it. I don’t know what his plan was, but no one answered.

About ten minutes later, I was working on some more egg, when Joy said, “Here they come.” Bar Hag and Girl Jeans (who had been in the house all day!) were walking over. I saw Matt come out of his house and stand at the end of his driveway where he could observe.

To be continued!

It’s been a rough start to the year.  I’ve tallied up 28 miles over six runs (3, 4, 7, 4, 5, 5) since the 7th.  I’ve missed out on an additional 12 miles (a 7 and a 5) thanks to these super cold temperatures.  Man, 40 sure does sound a lot better than 28.  Eh, I’ll be there soon enough.

In the last post I promised a gripping tale of neighborly animosity.  Let me set the stage: There is one house on our block that always has lousy people living in it.  When we first moved in it was April and Mike.  April was a chain smoking cow who was humping some dirtbag who showed up every morning in a van ten minutes after Mike left for work.  She liked to sit on her front stoop, smoking and yammering on the phone, wearing shorts that would have been inappropriately short on a hot chick.  Their favorite hobby was holding yard sales.  These yard sales last from Saturday until everything had either been blown out of or stolen from their yard.  I’m not kidding.  Crap would be piled there for weeks.  In their backyard were two boats, a motorcycle, and a car with no wheels.

Eventually, they left, and were replaced by Nikki and Bill.  I guess they were nice enough, but they never did ANYTHING.  Nikki would hide in the house if anyone else was outside.  Bill never made any effort to say hi and would pretend not to see you wave.  He joined the army and they moved away.

And then, in November of 2006, the latest people moved in.  Because they’re still there, I’ll refer to them as Bar Hag and Girl Jeans, her 16-17 year old son (I don’t want any of you twits looking up her record or his my face dotcom web).  At first, there was nothing remarkable about them.  As spring rolled around, they even did some minor landscaping to pretty things up.  And that’s where the goodwill efforts ended.

I called her Bar Hag.  She’s probably mid-thirties, maybe forty.  Has the gravel voice and leather skin of a sixty-year-old man.  Works/worked as a bartender.  Naturally, she came home at 2:30 in the morning.  The problem was, she came home blasting either crappy nu-metal or hip hop.  Yes, thank you for the Fitty-Cent.  Good thing I only have to get up in two and a half hours!  Bar Hag also brought her “tips” home - and sometimes more than one.  They also liked to blast their music.  And then they would drunkenly yell at each other in the front yard, make out, and go inside.  One dude had the brilliant idea to take a leak on the side of her house, under full glare from her floodlights.  Another guy mistook the next door house for Bar Hag’s and banged on the bedroom window of the (at the time) single mother who lives there.

They’re just a wonderful addition to the block.

Then in June, the real war started.  I was sitting in the living room around 10:30pm, watching TV.  The lights were on.  I noticed some shadowy figures running through the yards across the street.  I knew the the people directly across from me were out of town, so I got interested.  I went into the bedroom, where it was dark, and watched as three teenage boys ran through the backyards and front yards, then gathered under the street light at the corner of my yard.  “Ok,” I thought to myself.  “It’s just Girl Jeans and some friends of his goofing around.”

As I walked back into the living room, I heard something smash - like a bottle.  I immediately thought they had thrown something at my house.  I ran to the front screen door (which was locked) and managed to get outside.  The kids were gone.  I grabbed a flashlight and searched the yard for broken glass, checked my windows, checked the neighbor’s cars… nothing.  One thing I did notice was that my house was the only one with lights on.  These kids obviously could see me when I was in the living room - my front window is 10 feet wide and 5 feet high.

While I was outside, I saw the kids coming back with a fourth on a bike.  I hid in the shadows and followed them back to Girl Jeans’ house.  I was hoping they would say something or do something to indicate what happened, but no luck.  I figured, must have been the TV, and went home.

Stay tuned for Part 2, where the egg hits the fan…

“GET HIM ED!” Matt roared from somewhere behind me.

“I’m trying!” I shouted back. I had no idea how close Matt was; my entire focus was on the kid up ahead, racing away on his bike in terror as two angry maniacs chased him down the street. I saw something hanging down from his hand. “You better drop that, motherfucker!” I yelled. And surprisingly, he did.

By that time he was too far for Matt and I to even think about hoping to dream about catching him. Matt and I slowed to a walk.

“What the hell, Ed? You’re supposed to be the runner!” Matt teased, out of breath.

“Yeah, but I just got done running fourteen miles!” I wheezed back.

We walked up to where the thing had been dropped. Some kids who were playing in their front yard picked it up and were looking at it when we got there. It was a CD player and tape adapter. Matt looked at me. “Dude, that ain’t Erin’s. I don’t know whose that is.”

“Okay, you go back and get the car. I’m going to go up a little farther, see if I can find him.” I ran up another block, but all I found was another kid on a bike - who was also looking for a kid in a black tank top, just like we were. Empty-handed, I headed back home, stopping to warn some other neighbors and tell them what had just happened.

After every run, provided I’m not feeling like I’m about to die, I take Tes for a walk, a little “cool down.” I’d just gotten back from a fourteen-mile run and Tes’s walk. Joy and I were standing in the driveway, with the light on the side of the house on, chatting. Suddenly, she pointed behind me and said, “Is that Matt?”

I turned and looked. Someone wearing dark shorts and a black tank top was setting a bike down in Matt and Erin’s front yard. He then went over and peeked in the windows of Erin’s car. It could be Matt… but then, “No, that’s not him. His arms are too skinny.” I turned back to Joy. “Run in and get my phone, call Matt. I’m going to watch this guy.”

I started slowly strolling down the driveway, and the mystery guy opened the car door and got in. Then I saw Matt stand up in his living room and head for the front door. “Ah, shit,” I muttered. The kid heard Matt and quickly jumped out. I was already moving - adrenaline was surging through my body as I ran straight for the kid. I heard Matt yell, “Hey! What are you…!” and the kid was on his bike, pedaling.

I’d gotten within ten feet of him. But the race was on. Matt actually jumped straight out of his open porch window and ran after us in bare feet. We ran for a good block before the CD player was dropped.

Back on the home turf, Matt had gone out looking for the kid in his car. Another neighbor, Doug, was bummed because he “always misses the action,” so he grabbed an old bat and went out looking, too. Both returned with no luck.

We live on a fairly quiet street. We’re pretty tight-knit, and I would say about half of the people on the block regularly hang out with each other, and the rest are more “now and then.” Just in the last few months, however, it seems like someone is calling the police for one thing or another every other week. But one thing I didn’t expect is that we seem to be stepping up to the plate, too. Without any sort of spoken agreement, Matt, Doug, and I have formed a little “block defensive posse.”

If a strange car drives by slowly a couple times, especially in the evening, one or more of us go outside to see if it comes by a third time. If someone is acting suspicious, we go find out what they’re up to. When someone commits - or attempts to commit - a crime, we call the police AND go see if we can stop it.

Some people might say we’re being stupid, that we should let the cops handle it, that we’re putting ourselves in danger, blah blah blah. We’ve got no problem with the police. But the fact is, they aren’t always here, RIGHT NOW, when we need them. And I’m not talking vigilante justice; had we caught the kid tonight, we’d probably have held on to him and scared the living bejeezus out of him until the cops got there to take care of things.

But this is our street. This is our *home.* Neighborhoods go to shit when no one stands up for them. We’re not going to let that happen here. Just by speaking up, making ourselves visible instead of hiding, and taking action when necessary, we’ve run off a drug house (well, around the corner), terrified a group of teenage pricks to the point that they won’t set foot on our street even though their friend lives here (egg MY house, will you?), run of a wannabe thief, and who knows what else. Just by one or more of us going out into our front yards, we’ve seen people get back in their cars and leave.

But maybe we’re just ugly, or something.

And nothing was missing from Erin’s car.

I’m often asked how I can stand running so far.  Don’t you get bored? No, I’ve never really gotten bored.  I might get “tired,” but it’s not the same as getting “tired of it.”

Doesn’t it hurt? Yes, it hurts.  Sometimes.  Sometimes it’s just an ache in my knee, or soreness in my hip.  Sometimes it’s more like bones and muscles exploding, tearing themselves apart.  Sometimes you realize that the jangly bits have been jangling a little too much.  Side stitches are pretty common.  Joy once asked me how to make them go away, and I shrugged.  “Keep running.”  I’ve gone over two miles with a side stitch.  The most recent Runner’s World noted that “runners are conditioned to run through discomfort…”  I would add, “because we’re stupid enough to think that it might go away.”
Don’t you ever want to quit?  All the time.  But the only thing more humiliating than not doing it in the first place is quitting.  Even in terrible pain, puking, bleeding from your eyeballs, you feel a bit of guilt for quitting when you know, just another mile or two and the bleeding would stop.

This week was basically a repeat of last week - but I bought new shoes to do it.  I love my new Asics Kayano 13’s.  Two miles on Monday; I didn’t bother keeping time, since this was basically a recovery run after Saturday.  Thursday night I ran another 8-miler, and I set a new personal best! I ran four miles out, and each mile running back was faster than that segment the first time.  My first and last mile were both under 8 minutes, 7:49 and 7:33.  My average overall was 8:04, and my total was 64:32.  I can’t wait for the marathon to be over so I can start playing with my runs - now I want to run an eight under sixty minutes.

Joy had to work late on Saturday, so we went out on Sunday instead for this week’s 20-miler.  I wish there was something interesting to report - actually, no, I don’t.  That would probably mean an injury.  This week went WAY better than last week.  I had no real issues, just the standard aches.  I took two short voluntary walks at miles 10 (Gu and Gatorade) and 16.5 (more Gatorade), but other than that, I ran everything.  I kicked the last mile home and actually had my third-best mile of the run, at 8:47 (the others were 8:44 and 8:46).  My average was still higher than I would like, about 9:21, but I can live with that.  I improved my time over last week by roughly 13 minutes, for a whopping 3:07:17.  In a magical world, I can still break four hours for the marathon if I can run the last 6.2 at an 8:30 pace.

But we all know I have to do better than that to beat jules.

Last Friday was a 5K run at work.  I didn’t run because I knew it would blow my chances on the 20.  Two of my runner coworkers, Steve and Bosco “the Kenyan” ran; Bosco was third in 19:46, and Steve came in around 10th.  I told both of them they were lucky, because I’d have schooled them.  Bosco was like, “yeah okay whatever” and I told him I would have drafted him for three miles then smoked him at the end.

After the marathon, they said, I’m going to have to prove it.  Sometime in June, probably, I’ll be racing them around the trails at work.  Oh God.

Squealing tires: never something you want to hear as you’re about to step into an intersection. Luckily, in this case, I was still about ten strides away when the white low rider pickup raced around the corner from Sheridan onto 80th Street. “Jerk,” I muttered to myself before I looked down again at the sidewalk to watch for obstacles. My head snapped back up as I heard yet another set of tires taking the corner at speed - a squad car. “Oh hell yes,” I thought, watching the car speed after the pickup.

The driver of an SUV waiting at the light yelled, “Hell yeah! Get that crack dealer!” As I passed them in the crosswalk, I could hear 2 or 3 other guys in the truck cheering. One yelled “GO TREMPER” which totally puzzled me at first. Tremper is the high school for this part of town, and my shirt happened to be the same blue as the Trojan mascot. I couldn’t stop myself from yelling back, “Sorry, Bradford!” Bradford being the north side rival high school that Joy and I went to. “Whatever, it’s all good, whoo!” was the response.

Then I had a total mind flip as a realized that these guys had mistaken me for a high school student. My ten year reunion is this June, and I still can’t pass muster for an alomst-30-year-old in the general public. I thought about this as I ran on; how does 27-year-old me compare to 17-year-old me? Most of the overly philosophical ideas slipped out of my head faster than the sidewalk slipped under my feet, and that was what I focused on.

I ran track and cross country in high school. I wasn’t particularly exceptional at either, but I thought of myself as pretty athletic. For the last year and a half I’ve been training for the eventual BIG RACE and all this time I’ve been comparing myself to what I could do in 1996. Back then I could run a 5K in 19:03. Last fall, I felt a small sense of accomplishment when I ran it in 19:31. But tonight I realized something. There would be no competition between the two Eds. Sure, high school Ed might finish a short race a minute faster, but today Ed would dominate in anything more than three and a half miles.

I was so undisciplined then. If the weather was rainy, or cold, or hot, or no one was watching, my friends and I would run just out of view and then go to someone’s house, or go goof off in the woods. These days, it has to be colder than 15 degrees Farenheit (regardless of wind chill), or raining *and* more than a five mile run. I’m upset when I have to miss a run (though occasionally I relish the small injuries that force a recovery day).

Click to read more …