Smashed windows and unexpected comedy

Like most couples, the Abstract Citizen household relies on the occasional pet name. We’re not a shmoopy/honeybunny kind of couple, but there are certainly names that, for all intents and purposes, we only use at home or in private with each other.

Recently, Ms. Abstract Citizen went out of town for a few days. I had gone to see Indiana Jones 4 with some friends. On the way back, I found out from a neighbor that the police were trying to track me down because one of my windows had been smashed. As I walked out to the car, I noticed – with some excitement – that there was a note on the windshield.

“Great,” I think. “The guilty party was neighborly and did the right thing by leaving me a note.” As it turns out, the note was instead a heartfelt love note left by Ms. Citizen earlier that day, before hopping into a taxi to go to the airport.

It was addressed to by my pet name. Now, in the interest of maintaining some privacy, I will change the pet name for the purposes of this narrative. Let’s say she does call me “honeybunny.” So the note reads, “Dear Honeybunny, have a good weekend in Vermont.” Signed, “Shmoopy.”

My friends Dannyboy and the A-Train were quite helpful in getting the broken window sorted out. We called the police back, and they ran a quick errand or two to help me out after taping a couple of trash bags to now vacant window frame.

It’s getting late now, and I’m standing on Columbia, talking to two police officers. It really looks like I’ve done something wrong. If you were a passerby, you would think, “Man, that guy’s in some serious kind of trouble.” The officers were actually quite nice. We made small talk. I said, “That new Indiana Jones movie is really not worth this hassle.” The male officer – call him Officer P. - was about 6’4, very strong, and cut a very imposing figure. He joked that he would have to go anyway because of his kids.

So there we are, making small talk. I know I’ve written a lot about my recent interactions with the police. And I’m marveling at how, as a young idiot in college, I might have perceived the police as something more like an occupying force than as agents of law and order. Again, I am now very grateful to them. And frankly, I’m enjoying the small talk. I mention the gunshots from the other night, how we heard them clearly and how it’s a bit unsettling. We talk about Adams Morgan on Fridays and Saturdays. He suddenly realizes that it’s Thursday, meaning the next night is a Friday. “Oh no…I thought I had one more night before going back to it.” Deep sigh. Neighborhood busybodies are stopping by, making small talk with us.

And there are conversational lulls. We are waiting for dispatch to call back and assign this property damage a case number. I mention how my wife left me a note much earlier that day, at around 1:30 p.m., but we already knew the window was smashed closer to 8 p.m. because of when it was reported. It is during one of these lulls that Officer P. turns to me and says, deadpan:

“So. You’re the Honeybunny, huh?”

There was very little I could say back. Just, “That’s right. That’s who I am.”