The Police

Not the band, the actual police.

I took a break from the dishes, put on an old favorite and twisted up a spliff. I was just getting to the end of it, groovin' to the tunes when

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Somebody wanted in. My first thought was Gordie, but the timing was all wrong. My curiousity was piqued...

"hello?"

i fumbled to find the "listen" button.

"it's the police. can we talk to you for a minute, please?"

the what now? what the fuck? the police? what do they want? what did i do? is the joint still burning? holy fuck are my eyes red!? jesus, i can taste the pot smell on my breath. fuck! fuck!! the police!?!?!? what? i have to get up there!

i jog-trot up the stairs in my flip flops and gingham apron. it is indeed, the police standing in the entry. i open the door.

"uh, hi" i say petrified directly hoping they can smell coffee more than weed and that they can't hear my heart thumping in my throat.

"do you know the people in number three?" they ask police-like.

"not at all." the blood rushes back into my brain, whew they're not after me at all.

"can you let us into the building please. we just got a call from Houston, Texas to check on somebody."

i open the door and let them in. i'm sure they know i'm high as a kite and we are all glancing around the house. eyes darting.

"are all the units occupied?"

"yes, as far as i know." I'm trying to sound helpful and concerned.

We walk towards number three after i point them in the right direction.

"And you are number one? That's downstairs?"

"yup, that's right"

They send me back down underground and ask if the super is in the building. I point to his door across the hall. They thank me for my help. As I round the corner at the bottom of the steps, I can hear them KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK!!!!! on number 3.

Talk about a buzz killer. Skittish.