551. a call to the police

cranelegs pond, which sits on a vacant lot (as in no trespassing vacant), has become the hangout of marauding bands of teen boys recently.
so we're talking trespassing.
after a few nights in a row of young men screaming profanities at each other in bud light induced revelry, enough was enough.
the pond was under a pollution siege of algorian proportions.
so i called the police—the last time was to report a pack of what appeared to be, wild poodles.
i said, hello, my name is bob and i live next to cranelegs pond.
the man said, i'm lieutenant miller. your address please.
i said, that's not important, because i'm not complaining.
so he said, then why ya callin?
and i said, because i think your patrol should happen by cranelegs pond. it's on private, vacant land you know.
and he said, yeah, we know.
there was a probing policeman's pause.
then he asked, why would we want to happen by there?
and i said, well, maybe there are beer drinkin', pot smokin' punks there. not that i know for sure.
so he said, i see bob.
and i said, that's not my name.
and then i hung up.

when i told keaton about this, she looked out the window, her eyes as vacant as cranelegs pond.
then she muttered, you're scary.
i said, that's exactly what i want those kids to think.
she shook her head and went upstairs.
and i thought, i better reign in the macho a tad. i suppose it's pretty overwhelming stuff to the uninitiated.