You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The half way house.
I’ve been getting complaints from residents on Facebook. The allegations are numerous. Drug addicts and unsavory characters, perhaps 10 or more people, in one house, trying to lure junior high girls into the residence.
“Is it a halfway house?” I ask the city attorney.
“We’re investigating,” he says.
I walk up to the house with the for sale signs in the yard.
A man with a big frame and angry scowl rapidly approaches me.
He is moving swiftly and I feel like the calm is about to tip like a pin ball machine.
“You know you shouldn’t be intimidating people like that,” he says getting within a few feet of me.
His voice is coarse like cactus needles on a sunburn. I can feel his breath on this sultry afternoon.
“I’m not intimidating anyone,” I reply feeling my adrenaline spark.
“You knocked on my door. That’s my property. You don’t have the right to do that.”
I hate when people tell me what I can and cannot do in my America.
Most Americans couldn’t pass a 5th grade history test, yet they think they know the law.
Most Americans have a general working knowledge of the constitution and what makes this country great.
But when it comes to the law, a lot of Americans are as clueless as Alicia Silverstone in a high school Chemistry class.
So when they tell me what I can and cannot do in a sub-division on a public street, in the U.S.A. I get perturbed.
“I knocked on your door. Then I left.” My words are angrier than I expected.
They sound like a sniper’s growl that’s been distilled through gasoline.
“Well you don’t have that right,” he hammers back.
I don’t want to argue about rights with this mutton-chop of stupid.
I get close. I’m starting to simmer.
“So how many people you have living in there?”
“Huh?”
It feels aggressive. It feels like it could go bad at any moment.
“Neighbors say you’re a half way house. What’s going on in there?” I ask again aggressively.
“I’m moving, that’s what’s going on,” he counters.
I look at his yard. Men are cutting shrubs and moving furniture.
There is a lot of activity, and it is hard to quantify what is happening.
Are these recovering addicts or movers?
Are these sex offenders or lawn care experts?
They sort of look the same.
The large man with the RECOVERY emblem on his T-shirt will tell me he is a preacher and he admits that there are 5 or 6 people in the house.
“If people are around me, then they are with Jesus,” he says. “If they aren’t with Jesus, then they aren’t with me for long.”
He smiles. He seems proud of his street side sermon.
But when I try to pin him down on whether he’s a half way house, he side steps the issue.
He tells me that he is trying to help them find Christ.
Smart answer.
He is not registered with the state as a half way house. To operate as one is considered a class B misdemeanor.
Suddenly two police cars pull up.
“The law is here,” I say commenting on the rapidly changing scene.
He looks at me and says nothing.
I continue talking to him.
“So why does the neighborhood have such a problem with you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Threats and fights and anger. They flew a drone over my house.”
Jesus and drones and police.
This is quite a mess, I think to myself.
I’ve got a man proclaiming to be a preacher who says he is under attack because he is a Christian. I am standing in the front of an alleged halfway house with cars parked on the front lawn and household debris strewn about.
I look at the normal suburban house and it looks like any other residence. But for some reason, after talking to this street preacher, it also now looks like a church, a place for spiritually spent souls that this large man claims to preach to.
I turn to the cop. “How you doing officer?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
“You here because of us?” I ask.
“Yes. Everything OK?”
“I think so,” I say somewhat amused.
It turns out the would-be halfway house owner called the cops because he was feeling threatened.
“The neighbors have been threatening us,” he says. “I’m at my wit’s end.”
The 2nd cop waves to his buddy.
“You got this?”
The 1st cop waves back.
“Yeah, it’s all good.”
“So you are not a halfway house?” I ask the big preacher man one more time.
“No,” he says.
“Because you aren’t registered with the state as a halfway house?”
“Don’t need to be. Don’t need to register with the state to minister to people.”
I shake his hand and walk away.
Sometimes you don’t get straight answers.
Sometimes one man’s perception of America is the only America anyone needs.
Recovery?
Drug Addicts? Souls in distress?
Probably.
Life’s Crazy™