Peyton Place with Bungalows

I walked to the grocery store tonight . . . figuring that I would save some gas. I need a bigger bag to bring groceries home in . . .

As I walked back home, I notice there are two police cars very near what seems to be the location of my house. One of them is facing the opposite direction of traffic and all the lights are on. Granted, I do live on a rather busy street . . . but the whole light show? And there are three police persons (one was a woman) standing in a driveway.

Hmmm. Did my house blow up? Did someone drive into it? Are they waiting for me to come home? I've only been gone a half an hour.

The two guys on the porch at the house next to the really nice house . . . so the less than nice house (we all have the same house and floor plan) . . . one of them explains that it is probably not my house. "I think they are talking to R." he says.

"R?"
"Oh, you don't know R.? Yeah, how long have you lived here?"
"Ummm, about three years."
"And you don't know R.?"
"Who is R.?"
"He lives with his parents . . . he was sleeping with the woman in the house over there (nods head in direction opposite my house). Big scandal. She died. He was abusing her . . . sexually abusing her and she died while he was there. He's still under suspicion."

I look down the street and there is the weird guy that occasionally shows up in my yard. He used to mow the lawn for Harold (the guy I bought the house from). I told him I could mow my own yard. He seemed rather "off" in a trainable mentally impaired way.

"R. has been in your yard?" the guy says. "Don't talk to him. Never talk to R. I don't live here, but my buddy, he's lived here all his life, since he was born . . . since 1978. And the rule is you never talk to R."

The police finish their discussion with R. and pack up. R. lives four doors down, past the empty house and the Clampetts. I suppose I could look up things on the sex offender website, but really do I want to know? I lock my doors as a reflex anyway, be related to the "director of homeland security", as we lovingly call my mother. Crap, if she reads this, I'll have to get an alarm system.

I always set off the alarm system at their house, because I open the wrong doors to let the cat out on the porch. I couldn't handle the responsibility of an alarm system at my house. Trust me, Ms. director . . . I lock my doors. All the time.

So new rule . . . never talk to R.

Not like I did anyway. And the google bots are going to have fun with this one.