Sunday, April 28, 2013

Stopping Pests in the Bedroom Window

(As promised, here's the tale of the Window Weenie-Wagger -- and a couple more besides)

Three times in my merry career, in three different cities and states, I've had to chase burglars -- and worse -- out of my bedroom windows, using serious weapons.

 The first time was back in Michigan, where I was going to school.  I was living in the second-floor apartment of a rented house, and I'd elected to stay and take classes over the summer semester.  The house had no air-conditioning, the attic insulation wasn't very good, and an unusual heat-wave came along, so I was distinctly hot that night.  My roommates were out at a movie, and I was alone, so I stripped off my clothes and sat naked in the armchair to do my homework.  I'd finished my studies, still wasn't sleepy, and we had no TV at the time, so I turned on the radio to the local Classical/Folk/Blues station, took down the ornamental sword from the wall, pulled out a knife-sharpening stone and began sharpening the sword in time with the music.  Talk about cheap thrills on a hot Michigan night!

Anyway, as I was sharpening the sword, I heard a funny noise -- like raising a window -- from the bedroom next to me, which had been made out of a former dining-room and was cut off from the living-room only by an archway and a pair of curtains.  I knew that nobody was supposed to be in that room, let alone raising the window.  I set down the stone, took the sword in hand, got up and peeked through the curtains.

There I saw, in the dim light, a punk climbing through the bedroom window.

Well, I knew there was no point in calling the police;  they'd never get there in time to help, and besides, they were notoriously lax about responding to calls from students -- hippies and radicals, you know.  I had to take action myself.

So I plunged through the curtains, sword held high, yelling "Kreeee-gah!" -- straight out of Tarzan novels.  Yes, I fully intended to skewer the punk -- or slash him, and I knew that the sword's edge was up to the job.

Well, the punk saw a naked woman, swinging a sword, charging at him while screeching a battle-cry in an unknown language -- and decided that this scene was a little too weird for him.  He yanked himself back out the window, grabbed for the drain-pipe he'd clambered up, missed it -- and fell all the way to the driveway below.  When I got to the window and looked out, I saw him pull himself up and hobble down the driveway as fast as he could drag his injured leg, which looked broken.  I was disappointed that he hadn't broken anything else, thought again of calling the police, and decided that it wasn't worth the hassle.  That broken leg would keep him out of the crime game longer than any likely jail sentence.

I also resolved to get a more serious weapon than an ornamental sword.

Interestingly enough, we weren't bothered by thieves anymore, all the time I lived there.

                                                               *          *         *

The second time was a few years later, in Chicago.  By then I'd managed to buy a 12-gauge shotgun, which usually stood in a corner of the bedroom.  I was staying with the late Mary Frohman then, in an old-town "carriage house" -- a small house at the end of the back yard, with the bedroom window overlooking the alley -- on the notorious Near North Side.  One lazy Sunday afternoon we were lounging around in the bedroom, reading, when we heard the unmistakable sound of the garbage-can outside being dragged to just under the curtained bedroom window.  We looked at each other soundlessly, then I got up and got the shotgun.  Mary slid around beside the window and took hold of the curtain.  I sat on the bed, aimed the shotgun right at the lower edge of the window, and waited.  When we saw a poking motion move the curtain, I nodded to Mary.  She yanked the curtain away, revealing...

...a young punk with his hands and nose just over the window-sill, in the classic "Kilroy Was Here" position -- with his nose just about an inch from the muzzle of my shotgun.  I crooned: "Hel-LO there!"  His eyes grew very wide, and he pulled back fast out the window.  I scrambled after him, leaned out the window in time to see him jump down off the garbage-can and run -- quite quickly, too -- down the alley.  I called after him, in my best Chicago accent: "Oooh, come back!  We wanna play wit' yez!"  Of course, he did nothing of the sort, but dodged into the nearest available back yard to get out of my line of fire.

Mary and I collapsed on the bed, hugging the shotgun and laughing our @sses off.

No, we didn't bother calling the cops.  This was the Near North Side, after all.  But in any case, we weren't bothered by thieves again all the time we lived there.      

                                                                   *          *          *

The third time was here in Arizona, in Phoenix, when I was living in Ozzie's and Allanna's house, just off 7th Avenue and Missouri Road.  It was a one-story frame building, and I had the front bedroom to one side of the front entrance.  The windows were the old-fashioned crank kind, that looked out on the large front yard.  I'd bought my little pistol by then, and kept it on the nightstand beside my bed.  I also let my cats go in and out through the bedroom window.

One summer night, it being hot as Arizona usually is, and the house having only evaporative cooling, I was sitting in bed reading, with the window open.  I barely noticed, through the window, that the light over the front door was out;  that was unusual, since Ozzie usually left it on all night, but I thought nothing of it.  Then I heard a rustling outside the window, and thought it was the tomcat wanting to get in, so I got up and cranked the window open a little wider, leaned out and called: "Kitty-kitty-kitty" as usual.

The rustling came again, but now I saw that it came from a man -- middle-aged, middle-sized, wearing nondescript clothes -- who was crouched by the side of the entryway.  He saw me and lunged toward the window, so I promptly ducked back and began cranking it closed.  You cannot crank a window closed quickly, and he got there before I finished -- and stuck his arm through the window and wagged it in a particularly threatening way.  I promptly let out a fine string of outraged curses, because I recognized that gesture.  I'd seen that movie, too!  It was a pretty-damned-sexist thriller about a stalker that threatens a feather-headed girl who hasn't a clue how to protect herself.  I was furious that this creep thought I was anything like that fluff-brained fool!

Undeterred by my unexpected reaction, the perv pulled his arm out and instead stuck his weenie through the window and shook it.  Infuriated, I grabbed his weenie -- good and hard -- and pulled it, and part of him, through the nearly-closed window.  I also reached for my gun on the nightstand, but couldn't quite reach it.  He, naturally, pulled back.  We had a brief tug-of-war with his weenie as the rope, until -- his dong being uncircumcised -- the skin slid on the core and pulled out of my grasp, just as my fingers closed on the pistol.  I promptly leaned out the window and aimed at him, but he was running away.  I remembered to angle the shot downward so it wouldn't go out of the front yard, and fired.  I might have creased him across the buttocks, but there was no sign of it;  he only ran away faster.  In another second, he was out of sight in the shadows.

I would have let it go at that, guessing that my grip would cause him difficulty p!ssing for the next few days, which might make him reconsidere his pet sport, but I realized that somebody in the neighborhood must have heard the shot.  That meant some neighbor was most likely reporting "gunshots" right now, and I'd best beat them to the cops.  So I got on the phone, dialed 911, and explained: "If anybody has reported a shot being fired in this neighborhood, don't worry;  it was only me, chasing a weenie-wagger out of my bedroom window."

Well, as I might have expected, the cops soon showed up.  I recited my tale, and when I got to the bit about grabbing his weenie and pulling it, the cops had trouble keeping their faces straight.  They asked for a description, which I gave -- and then I added that, considering how hard I'd grabbed him, he probably had finger-sized bruises up and down his dong, which they might find in a "short-arms inspection".  The cops were hard put not to crack up at that.  One of them managed to say that, yes, they'd had similar complaints of a weenie-wagger in this neighborhood.  The other tried to scold me about firing a shot in a crowded city neighborhood, but he kept snickering while he did it.  I claimed that yes, I understood that, which was why I had angled my shot downward and therby probably missed.  They asked if I were sure that I'd missed, and I explained that I might have creased him across the buttocks, but certainly didn't stop him from running away faster -- and the cops snickered again.  I also mentioned that he had probably unscrewed the front light-bulb, so his prints might well be on it.  The cops agreed, handed me the formal papers they usually hand out to crime witnesses, and went outside to collect that light-bulb.  I could hear them laughing all the way to their cop-car.

Well, I was never called as a witness, so I guess that either they caught the perv and didn't need my testimony, or else -- after a few days of painful p!ssing -- he decided to give up weenie-wagging.  In any case, I never heard of him bothering anybody in my neighborhood again.  For that matter, we didn't have any problem with burglars, either.

This is why I encourage everybody -- and especially women -- to get themselves firearms and become competent with them.  It also helps to cultivate a bold attitude -- and a strong grip.

--Leslie <;)))><   )O(    

        

  

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