Someone called in a bomb threat on me.
The Century Sheriffs responded, 3 cars X 6 deep, frisked and detained me in the back of the lone cruiser that remained when bomb was not found in the place the caller apparently said it would be.
The Deputies were very efficient and not violent at all. I was frisked thoroughly, but barely noticeably by the female deputy. The deputies asked me about a lockbox under my bed and I told them it was there and what it contained. They retrieved it and found nothing out of order, and returned the lockbox to its original location.
My idiot neighbors, the gang family, came out to gawk, flipped me the bird; one was in such a hurry to try and snap my picture (It was almost as good as being followed by the paparazzo, not), she nearly tore up her big old, out-a-date, fossil fuel burning, rolling target of a van backing out of her driveway. She pulled alongside the cruiser, but I lay face down on that hard plastic back seat.
It was my first time being in a squad car or whatever you call ‘em now. That back seat is hard as black walnuts. You can’t open the back doors because the mechanisms to exercise such autonomy do not exist back there in the nether regions of the cruiser.
One of the crowd (maybe you can tell I’m trying to find a concept with which to label these inhabitants, these neighbors born of propinquity – yeah, I said it) in the van attempted to take a picture of me with her cell phone. And me without my lipstick . . ..
I’ve always brought out the worst in people, the jealousy, the sense that I can be goaded and won’t really retaliate in any way. I bring out that sense that I can be bullied. Of course, I see myself as a strong, lithe, independent scholar artist who only wants to be left the hell in peace. Dejame en paz, por favor.
Having this marked characteristic, as well as a series of similar experiences for comparison has always made me think I have AS because I cannot for my life figure out why people are jealous of me. I mind my own business, am a helluva good dancer, can cook well with even the meanest equipment, and while I like to laugh, I have a skewed sense of humor. Nobody’s perfect.
Hence, I suppose, the bomb threat.
It is almost nice to know I’ve still got it like that, not.
Peace be upon Nora Ephron forevermore.