If He’s Such a Hero, Why Does He Feel Like a Wimp?

I always thought that if anyone ever broke into my house, that would be his last break-in. I’d get the gun and punch his ticket on the spot. There’d be no tears or regrets about it, either. He knew the risks; I had a wife and children to worry about; he got what he deserved.

And then a couple of weeks ago, it happened. Someone broke into my house while I was in it. (Actually, he just walked in the side door.) And far from being furious or even afraid, I was mostly embarrassed and confused.

I was upstairs in my office on a Sunday morning, typing away at my computer, when I heard my neighbor calling my name on the street outside. As I went down the stairs to see what he was yelling about, I looked up and there was a pudgy stranger in his early 20s wearing a lime-green shirt and walking casually through my living room.

“Who are you?” I said in astonishment. “And what are you doing in my house?”

He was nonchalant. As we walked out the door, he explained that he had seen a couple of bad-looking characters go into my house by the side door. He and his buddy outside had run over to help.

“They drove away in your car!” he was telling me, pointing down the street. “That little yellow Volkswagen that just drove off. They took your car.”

I did have a little yellow Volkswagen, but no one had stolen it. My wife had taken the children to the store. Maybe he was just confused. I sure was.

When we walked out the kitchen door, I found a small crowd waiting at my patio gate: my neighbor Gary, another neighbor from the next block and the partner of the man in the lime shirt--a thin guy in a Raider cap.

My first reaction was gratitude that so many people had come by to help. Then Gary took me aside to explain that he had seen these same two fellows ring my front doorbell (I hadn’t heard it) and then go into my side yard, which is why he came over and started calling my name.

Gary wanted me to call the police and, I had to admit, it made a lot of sense, given the fact that every time I asked the fellow in the lime shirt what had happened he told me a different story: first, that two crooks had taken my car; then my bike; then they had run straight down the street; no, they turned right at the corner.

But whenever I tried to press him on the inconsistencies, he would hold his thumb and forefinger a quarter-inch apart and say, “I only understand a little English.”

On the other hand, even if the pair were would-be crooks, what was the point of calling the police? They didn’t act the slightest bit threatening. Nothing was missing--not my wallet on the refrigerator, the camera in the closet or the VCR on the TV stand. The only thing I could say against them was I saw one of them in my living room. It was a nothing case.

Besides, how could I call the cops on a couple of guys who were standing there, chatting away like we were all good neighbors and old friends, apparently willing to spend the rest of the day there? It seemed so uncool and embarrassing that I finally just said: “Why don’t you leave?”

As they walked off down the street, I could see that my neighbors were disappointed in me. One told me: “I think you should have called the police.” And when I thought about it, I knew he was right. They might not have taken anything from me, but what--it suddenly occurred to me--if they went in someone else’s house?

I went back inside and dialed 911. Even so, I felt foolish, telling the police that I had found someone in my house and then quickly adding, “But he was real friendly and he didn’t take anything.”

The cops took my call a lot more seriously than I did. Five minutes later, a patrol car pulled up and, to my surprise, the officers told me to get inside: “Maybe we can find them.” Although we drove around for 15 minutes, we couldn’t find them and, to tell the truth, it made me glad. They were just a couple of young guys looking for a better life and here I was sicking the cops on them.

Then suddenly the cop hit the brakes. “There they are!”

I could see the two young men standing sheepishly on a nearby front porch behind a potted plant. Both officers jumped out of the car, drew their guns and ordered the two men to lie down on the lawn and spread their legs. Then they handcuffed them and called for a backup.

I stayed in the back seat of the patrol car. And it wasn’t just to keep out of the way when the police had their guns out. I was embarrassed. The pudgy, friendly fellow in the lime shirt had turned his head on the grass and was looking back at the patrol car in a look of hurt and bewilderment. I imagined him thinking, “I only tried to help this guy and he goes and calls the cops on me.” At this point, I was only hoping the cops wouldn’t put them in the back seat with me. I’d rather walk home than deal with the humiliation.

Then one of the officers went up to the front porch and fished around in the potted plant. As he walked back to the patrol car, he held out his hand: “Recognize any of this?”

It was my wife’s wristwatch, the one I’d bought her for her birthday. And a little pendant with her name and birth date on it. All the time they’d been talking to me, the sneaking weasels had her jewelry in their pockets! Now I was feeling foolish all over again, but this time for acting like some mush brain.

Last week, my wife told me I had become a neighborhood “hero.” She had been walking down the street and she heard a neighbor telling a little boy about the burglary at “Paul’s house.”

“A hero,” I said in astonishment, “or a wimp?”