So the other day I mentioned our experience at Easter Mass, along with a description the healthy dose of damnation I felt burning in my back afterward. Yesterday, I indulged myself with a brief interlude to discuss my recent luck with two-liter rocketry. Surprisingly, though, our story about attending services on Sunday doesn’t end with the priest’s pleasant smile of greeting and judgment. No, no, I totally left out the police.
Nearing the end of mass, I felt my blackberry vibrate in my pocket. Odd, I thought, who would call on Easter morning, before 10 am? I shifted the curling stone I was holding (that is, The Attitude), to my right arm, dug my phone out of my pocket and looked at the screen, intending to ignore anything that didn’t include an on-screen message suggesting There Is An Emergency Somewhere That Needs You.
It was an 800 number, just an 800 number. I slid the phone back into my pocket, assuming this was some kind of wretched holiday morning marketing trick. Perhaps the Jehovah’s Witness were trying to convert me on a Sunday morning, guessing that my exposure to the holy holiday homily had my built-in brainwashing resistance at a minimum. Easily ignored, I thought. No big thing.
Strangely, though, 90 seconds later, the phone buzzed in my pocket again. Because I’m likely already destined for an eternity of, um, warmth, I figured I wasn’t going to hurt my chances by checking the phone again during mass. So I did. No call this time; it was the vibration indicating a new voicemail. Very, very strange, I thought, I’ll have to make sure to check that later.
Shortly thereafter, we were caught sneaking out of mass.
Fast forward to our drive home afterward; I looked down to my blackberry and remembered the voicemail. At the same moment, a police cruiser sailed in front of the family van, lights and sirens blaring. Sanford, from the back seat, interrupted my contemplation on the evils of Easter Morning Marketeering with a question about why police cars can go as fast as they want while we plebeians have to maintain reasonable speeds. He was soon mollified with an explanation of the need to respond to emergencies quickly, so I turned my attention back to my phone.
As I picked up the phone to call for voicemail, the Puddinette said to me, “I got a call and voicemail while we were in church; who would call on Easter morning? You know, unless it was an emergency.”
Emergency, she said, emergency. “I think the number is from the security system people,” she then added.
The tumblers, like in a keyed-padlock, fell into line in my head, and realization came spilling out. “It is,” I said, “I remember it now, and I’d bet you 10 dollars that cruiser is headed to our house.”
I’d have won that bet.
So, five minutes later, after speaking to the security system people, I gave the responding officer a warm, “Happy Easter” and explained that the motion detector in our family room triggered the alarm. It’s the second or third time that has happened in the past six months. He looked somewhat relieved and perhaps a little disappointed, and we let him do a walk-around and walk-through of the house to make it worth his visit. He was very pleasant and wished us all a nice day as he drove away, after suggesting they’d do a few extra patrols of the neighborhood that day, just to make sure.
You know, in case my motion detector acted up again and needed to be scared straight.
The kids thought it was pretty cool, though. I guess nothing does quite say Happy Easter like a visit from your local police department.
I think I’ve learned my lesson, though, next time we’re staying in church until the end.