911 is a joke

This morning at 4:15, I woke up to the sound of a young woman screaming.

“Was that inside the building or outside?” I asked Tina.

“Outside,” Tina said sleepily. “That was the second time I heard it.”

I might have been sleeping during the first scream. Or it woke me up.

A few moments later, that song “Sail” by Awolnation started playing louder than the radio we play in the house. I went to the front window, and just a couple houses down, there was a car double parked and two young people were dancing around to the song in the middle of the street. Another person — most likely a guy — was there as well.

They were dancing like white people at summer festivals, only worse. They were screaming and laughing, whooping and hollering.

To the song “Sail.”

Who does that?

Frustrated, tired and groggy, I called, “311” because I wasn’t sure this qualified as a 911 emergency.  The woman at 311 transfered me immediately to 911.

I explained my dilemma, and the woman said she’d send someone out immediately.

Tina and I watched another five minutes as no one came. Just before I hung up, the 911 operator said, “Do you want this call to be anonymous?” I said, “I can stay up.” But then I caught myself and said, “Whatever, I’m tired. Make it anonymous.” And I hung up.

If the cops rolled up, surely they would get the driver for drunk driving. These guys were toast.

They appeared to be dropping off the girl after a 4 a.m. romp at a local bar. There are lots of 4 a.m. bars around our neighborhood.

They drove off, and if the cops ever came, I didn’t know.

Meanwhile, because of the adrenaline rush of calling the cops, I couldn’t fall back asleep for hours.

If I wasn’t able to sleep, surely there should have been a traffic stop that gave me sweet satisfaction for calling.

Surely.

 

 

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