How I Almost Got My Sister Shot

Normally I try to find the humor in most situations, yet try as I may I can’t come up with a funny twist to this story. Be forewarned, this is not a humorous tale, yet it did alter the course of my existence. Let me set the stage. Mom and dad were working every night at the bar. This meant I was alone in the house on Echo Park from the time I got home from school until about 3 am. Even though Echo Park was fairly ghetto by this time, we still operated old style, when nobody locked their doors or windows, and we never closed the curtains or the blinds, maybe because if we touched them they would fall off. The nights I felt frightened led to some pretty bizarre habits. Sometimes I would sleep sitting upright in a corner of the living room with my back propped against the two walls so I could spot invaders if they entered. I never passed in front of a window when the light was on because anyone walking down the street would know I was alone. I literally crawled through the dining room to the kitchen one night to avoid being seen through those windows. It would have been useless to tell my parents I was afraid. I was supposed to be old enough to take care of myself for a few hours, and that was that. My best friend and I often spent the evening talking on big black rotary phones with long cords that reached from room to room. One evening, before we hung up, she warned me to be sure to lock my doors and windows because the serial killer that had been stalking houses in L.A. was reported to be in my neighborhood. That unnerved me so much I actually called my father at the bar and asked if he could please come home because I was scared. He told me there was nothing to worry about. If anything happened, call him back and he would come home. Sure. That works. The bar was a 40-minute drive from home. Then I called my friend back to tell her I was scared. She told me to take the phone to bed with me and call them if anything happened. They only lived twenty minutes away. Great. I locked the doors for the first time ever, turned off all the lights, settled the phone at the foot of my bed, and in spite of everything, miraculously fell into one of those coma-like deep sleeps where nothing can wake you up. Nothing, that is, except the sound of the latch of the back door being rattled as someone tried get in. I bolted upright and felt for the phone. I didn’t dare turn on the light. My trembling fingers dialed my friend’s number and woke them up. Her mother answered. “Mrs…, someone is trying to break in!” I whispered in panic. “Hang up and call the police,” she said. “Then call me back.” I knew the police number, but it still took me four or five tries to get it right in the dark because my hands were shaking so much. Meanwhile, I could hear the sounds of someone walking in the back yard. In those days, when you called the police, an actual police officer answered the phone. The one who picked up my call was calm, efficient, effective. “What is your address? Who is in the house with you? Police are on their way. Don’t hang up. Stay on the phone with me.” (Up to then I was beginning to feel relieved.) “How old are you? Where are your parents? Do they work at night? Do they leave you alone?” (I started getting teary-eyed because I might be getting my parents in trouble. I really wanted to end this conversation.) “I have to hang up now.” “No, don’t hang up the phone. Keep talking to me.” Suddenly, I heard the front door open and the sound of familiar voices.“My parents are home!” I yelled into the phone. The officer replied, “Don’t hang up. Stay on the phone.” “Its okay,” I said. “I can hear my sister’s voice. I gotta go.” By now he knew my house was surrounded by officers from two squad cars, so he let me hang up. I ran to the front door, where I saw my sister, brother-in-law, mother, and father. I cried out, “I’m so glad you’re home! Someone has been trying to break in!” “You idiot!” my sister snapped back. “That was me! We’ve been trying to get into the house for 20 minutes! Why did you lock the doors? I even banged on your window!” Through the open doorway, I could see an officer putting his gun back into his holster, walking toward a patrol car where another office was waiting. “What happened?” “Oh, the little girl got scared.” Yes, that was humiliating. Here’s what happened while the little girl was getting scared. My sister and brother-in-law arrived in town two days earlier than expected and got to the house around 2 am. To her surprise, the doors were locked. She said she knocked on my window and called my name, but what woke me up was her second attempt to open the back door. That’s when I made my calls and officers were dispatched. Knowing my parents would be home soon, my sister and brother-in-law waited in their car until my sister decided to try my bedroom window one more time. As she disappeared from sight, the patrol cars arrived and armed police surrounded the place. Then these three things happened almost simultaneously: An armed officer cautiously rounded the corner to the back yard and saw a culprit turn away from the window and step toward him. I don’t know who was more startled — my sister, facing a man with a gun pointed at her or the officer facing a young woman in ballet flats. I just know she explained who she was and why she was there before he had a chance to shoot her. Her husband got out of his car and explained what was happening so the other officers didn’t shoot him. My parents arrived from work and were not only able to confirm the story, but they actually owned a key to open the front door. The followup was that my father, hearing my story, wrote a letter of commendation to the officer who handled things so well on the phone. Also, I was reconfirmed in my family pecking order as the village idiot and was made to feel guilty for almost getting my sister shot. It wasn’t until yesterday, when I was trying to figure out how to make this story funny, that the big message hit me in the head like a ton of bricks. I didn’t matter. Disclaimer. I mattered to my friend and her mother because when I forgot to call her mother back, she called me to make sure everything was alright. It was just my immediate family who needed me to be invisible for a few more years. How did that knowledge alter the course of my existence? Since I knew how awful it felt to be invisible, I started trying to make other people know that I saw them. There’s nothing like having an earache to make you sympathetic to people who are suffering from one. Isn’t that just how life works? When everything is smooth sailing, you don’t have to make many course adjustments. When the boat starts sinking, you have to bail water or learn how to swim. Realizing I didn’t matter prodded me into becoming a better person to sit next to at a party. To paraphrase the wise sage, everything you send out returns to you, so make sure whatever you say comes back as a kiss on the cheek and not a fist in your nose. I’m happy to report that trying to make people feel as if they matter comes back with a kiss on each cheek.