Call the Police ? ? ?

Yes, it was Bang!  Crash!  Spinter!  And I was scared and shivered as the shattering of glass broke the stillness of the midnight hour.  It seemed so loud that I wondered if the neighbors heard and were calling the Police.

There are few sounds at that hour as terrifying to the heart and ear as the breaking of glass, especially when you know what’s breaking.  And I knew it was the glass in my own back door.

I actually giggled in my nervousness.  I shook.  I looked around to see if anyone . . . anyone . . . was there to hear. Or to help.  But I was alone.

But then the back door opened and the broken glass crunched as footsteps hurried into my kitchen.  A light snapped on . . . the door closed  and . . . yes,  it was I who stood there, scared and shivering  In my own kitchen, laughing foolishly, feeling guilty for some reason, and, half a-waiting for the sound of the police siren.

Yeah, you know the answer.  It wasn’t a burglar breaking into my home.  Oh, it was broken into, yes, yes, yes, but I was the one doing the ‘breaking and entering’.  How else, I ask  you, was I going to get into my  home when I was absent minded enough to step outside for a moment and (out of sheer  habit)  flip the lock switch, and naturally, the keys were inside.  And I was out.

It seemed so foolish.  Only a minute ago I was serenely in my home and then suddenly . . . I was outside, cold and locked out, too.  A dozen ideas went through my mind and not a one of them was any good to change things back where they’d been only moments before.

Wake the neighbors?  I didn’t have the guts.  Climb through the bathroom window?  Too high, and anyway  I couldn’t get the ladder out of the locked garage.  Call the police?  But what could they do?

And, so, so, so, so.  It didn’t take me long to make up my mind.  It was cold and I wasn’t dressed for such shenanigans anyway.  I looked around and found a fairly big rock. . .  giggled at how foolish it all was and gave the glass in my back door a whack and dang it, nothing happened. 

In fact, it seemed to almost bounce back at me.  Well, I said to myself, we’ll have none of that, and gave it another, stronger bang.  Still it held.  What do they make this stuff out of, I muttered.  Rubberized plastic????

 So, in desperation and feeling foolish, nervous and who else knows what other emotion, but I stepped back a goodly pace, wound up my arm just like the pitchers do in baseball games, and let that rock fly. And suddenly there was broken glass flying all ways, too.  I tell you that time it broke!

I was far enough back to be out of the way of the flying glass, but saw  it flying all ways, and each piece broke into more little pieces as it hit the concrete.  It was like a chain reaction and I thought it would never end.

I looked guiltily towards the neighbor’s window,  almost certain they’d hear the commotion and be calling 911.  And I then could just see myself trying to convince some cop that after all, the house is mine, and if I want to break glass windows at midnight, I have the right to break glass windows.  It just might be something I like to do if I get bored around the midnight hour. 

But my house or not, there was  something about breaking into it that made me feel guilty and nervous.  I forgot what  I’d been doing before I locked myself out, and even forgoten  why I had wanted/needed to go outside. 

Anyway, within half an hour or so I had half-way cleaned up the broken glass from floors and steps, stuffed the broken window with crushed up newspapers, locked the door (from the inside this time), turned off the lights and crawled into bed.  Let to-morrow take care of the rest.

Bang!  Crash!  Splinter!  Should we call the police?  No, no, no don’t bother, it’s probably just Ethel doing some late night outside chore.  You can never guess what she might doing. And that I happen to know well, for you see I happen to be Ethel