The Lost SWAT Team

As I backed my car out the driveway and into the street my day began with rifles pointed at me and five or six SWAT officers on the ground advancing toward me, submachine guns, assault rifles, riot shotguns, vests, camo, helmets, the lead black and white all jumping with red lights and green lights and white noise squawking at me “Get out of the car with your hands up.”

Two quick thoughts: I’m White so that’s in my favor, but it’s still a helpless feeling: your body vs. their bullets.

After checking, and doublechecking, and triple checking—whoops,wrong house. Sorry sir.

I was pretty sure the perplexed team wasn’t from around here because local law enforcement and I know exactly where to get a good breakfast, and so I see a lot of faces and personalities at the diner out on the highway; none of the officers who approached and surrounded me did I recognize. This new team was having the same problem every first time UPS or Fed Ex or USPS or Amazon drivers have: how to get to the houses further up the hill. And so to help out the lost SWATters I pointed to the tree-obscured turnout they would have to take. They reconvened, and I drove back up my driveway to wait for their seven-vehicle caravan to clear my driveway entrance and make its way further up the road. They’ll figure it out. They always do.

© 2022 Randy Stark

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