Last night, the Husband and I were in the kitchen making happy home (quite literally, Sharkboy was adding icing to a cake and I was playing with the cat) when we’re startled by a head appearing in the back door window. I can’t see all that well out into the gloom but I can see it’s not the upstairs neighbour (who occasionally forgets where the hell he is – thumb to lips, tipsy bottle motion, crazy eyes…). The head in the doorway motions for me to open the door.
Not on your bloody life, my face must have said because seconds after that I was staring at a Metro cop badge through the window.
We let the two cops in and are told that on Saturday night, around 10ish, a man was kidnapped out in the back alley by “Jamaican accented guys with a silver gun”, pistol whipped, and driven to an ATM. When they only got $100 from him they started to beat him some more. At that point, he made his escape.
Did we see anything? No, we were in the front room watching TV. Can you spell your name, sir? That’s with an “e”, like “Jeff”, no relation. What is your work number? Uh… Notice any dark SUVs in the alley that night? No, but we did notice that there is lame, child like Bloods vs Crips graphitti that appeared on some walls back there in the last few days.
After the 20 questions, Sharkboy pipes up with possibly the most “Andy Griffith-esque” line I have ever heard in my life: “If you had come thirty minutes later, I could have offered you some cake!” he said, pointing to the half done bunt pan. They chuckle and say they would have taken him up on that. Always the charmer, my husband. At this point I’m forced to mention that one was hot. Like, “PLEASE EAT MY CAKE!” hot. We joke about police work-load and they leave, moving on to the apartment next door.
I think I got about 4 hours sleep last night.
7 thoughts on “Cops in my Kitchen”
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That was a joke, by the way.
Hey Peter, I thought there were no blacks, crime or homeless people in Canada! I’m nover coming to Toronto, now!
Hmm almost sounds like the making of an “art film”. Especially the cheesy plot on getting the strapping young police men in your kitchen.
hehe
Yikes. Um, Yikes. When I lived on Dundonald St. we had a very busy back alley, but the worst experience I had was one night when I was mopping the floor with hot water. When I was finished I remembered that there was some ice on the porch steps so I thought I’d take the water and melt the ice with it. I took the bucket of water and poured it on the front porch and steps and immediately heard someone scream. There was someone living under our porch, unbeknownst to me. I felt really bad actually, and kept apologizing and tried to convince him that I didn’t pour hot water on him on purpose.
He didn’t believe me.
I think I got about 4 hours sleep last night.
So did Sharkboy dress up like a cop, and you as a robber? Or was it the other way around?
What kind of cake was it? Did they catch the Jamaican?