An Explicitly Legitimate Knocking

5:45am, I’m sleeping. Somewhere in 1993, August perhaps. The one August I happen to live alone in an apartment building on the second floor. Sound asleep at 5:50am.

Knock knock, long pause. Knock knock knock knock, long pause. As I wake, Knock knock knock knock knock.

This is not just some random noise. Not quite the drunk neighbor below tripping on his furniture, but just as loud. And then again confirming my suspicions, an explicitly legitimate knock. Knock knock knock knock knock. This is serious knuckles on wood at 5:55am. It’s got that answer the door sound of a landlord collecting rent. It’s got that can’t you hear me knocking sound of a cold canvassing environmentalist. It’s got that I’m not going away sound of a Jehovah’s Witness who knows you’re home. Knock knock knock knock knock. Undoubtedly an official knock.

I alluded my interest in the knockee with a lackadaisical saunter to peek out the window to see if I could catch a spy on who was knocking and I woke up all at once as I looked. It was the police, a whole half a front yard full of police. EEK! That explains the knock. Once I saw it was the police I went to answer the door.

By 6am I was half way down the stairs when I saw their boots through the front door triple stacked windows. It was then I realized that I was in my underwear. Great, watch some neighbor open the door to see what is going on and I’m standing around in my cartoon boxers with the police. I’ll just answer the door, let ‘em in and scram back up to bed.

So I’m going up the stairs. Hmm, I thought out loud under my breath. They’re going up the stairs too. I furrowed my brow with confusion trying to think of a way to tell the police that not only are beginning to invade my personal space but they disturbed me from my warm sound sleep. They were all coming up behind me for somebody on my floor. I turned the corner to just mine and the old lady’s apartment across the hall and the police followed suit.

Rushing thought: They’re either here for me or Mabel; all Mabel does is make hot dog casserole, fill the bird feeder in her slippers and talk about the weather. Hmm, they’re not here for the old lady.

Hmm, reaching for my doorknob in slow realization that they were indeed coming to my place I asked them “You guys aren’t going to arrest me in my underwear, are you”? They asked me “Are you Scott Somethingorhteother”? I felt like Henry Chinaski from Barfly, answering the door in my boxers. I almost said “No! I’m Leon Spinks!” before I slammed the door in their faces, but I didn’t. Capitulate I thought, in nothing but your underwear, capitulate. Don’t resist anything to a hallway full of cops when all you have is your underwear. I did offer them Scott’s Somethingorhteother’s alias names though (I’ve been reading his junk mail. His junk mail is exceptionally trashy). I handed them some catalogs as evidence and showed them my ID as further evidence.

You know those signs at the gas station that say “Drive offs will be prosecuted”. They’re serious. Apparently the DMV still has Scott’s old address - mine. They said thank you and sorry. I said no problem.