Last night in the middle of the night, sometime around 1:30, there was a terrible pounding on our front door.

Knock knock knock knock.

(brief pause)

Knock knock knock KNOCK.

(brief pause)

Knock knock knock knock KNOCK KNOCK FRICKIN' KNOCK.

"It's a bit early for Safety Carrot's Cantonese students to be arriving, don't you think?" Kate asked.

I agreed. True, the Carrot's students are eager. True, the Carrot is a fine, fine instructor. But classes start at ten on the dot, and all the enrolled youngsters are bright and self-confident, and they understand that showing up early will curry no favours for anyone.

Still, I thought it best to ask the Carrot.

"Of course it's not one of my students," she said. "My students are one-and-a-half years old. When have you ever met a one-and-a-half-year-old who could make that much noise knocking on a solid oak door? What are you, stupid?"

"Uh..." I began.

"Look, either you can be a man and go see who's at the door, or I can do it and you can spend the next sixty years feeling sheepish every time you look me in the eye."

Knock knock knock KNOCK.

"You're the one with the black belt," I countered.

"Exactly. Go see who's at the door before I kick your ass."

So I did. As I went down the stairs, three possibilities crossed my mind:

1. It was a robber, making sure the place was empty before busting in.
2. It was the secret police, coming to haul one or more of us off to the gulag.
3. It was our drunken neighbour, not sure which house was his or where his keys were, looking for somebody to help.

Quelle surprise! It was none of the above. No, it was a pleasant, even-tempered man with a wiry frame.

"You Bret Dawson?"

"Yessssirree," I said.

Then he handed me my chequebook. And then a plastic bag containing my stylish eyeglasses, two of my notebooks, and my library book about Frisbees. It was the contents of my stolen man purse! I had written them off for dead and never dared hope to see them again, but here they were, knocking on the front door at 1:30 in the morning!

"Hello, boys," I said to them, fondly. Then I dug a little deeper in the bag but failed to find what I was looking for. "Hey. Where's my frickin' gum?"

The man at the door looked guilty. "I had a herring sandwich for dinner. What was I supposed to do?"

I gave him one of those looks that could cut glass.

"So," he said, changing the subject, "about the reward. What say we make it 6,000 bucks?"

"Up yours."

"600."

"Up yours."

"Ten."

"Nope."

"Eight."

"F off."

"Spare some change?"

I gave him a nickel. Then I shoved him down the front steps. But it was snowing out so he had a soft landing.

Posted by Bret at March 5, 2003 02:17 PM