Owlspotting

I’m not used to being referred to as “the young lady.” So I couldn’t help but blush a little and turn slightly toward the wall when the cop pointed to the used-but-not-gooey condom on the counter and said:

“There’s nothing in it, so I don’t think it was meant for the Young Lady.”

Turning to my two male roommates, he elaborated: “He’s basically saying you guys are that — trying to watch the language around the Young Lady — he’s saying you guys are scumbags,” and, nodding in my direction, “Sorry.”

It was 2 a.m. A few hours earlier, I had received a call from one of my roommates, Nick, who awkwardly asked whether I’d been home after work or not. I hadn’t.

“Are you sure?” I was. A long pause followed, and then he said,

“When Mike got home from work he found a used condom on the kitchen counter.”

I assured him I had not left behind any latex when I left for work.

“OK, well, that means someone’s been in our apartment. It’s a statement. I’m calling the cops.”

I could add nothing more than “Ew.” An hours passed before the police buzzed. They were a TV-cop cliche — bald, tattooed hardass older guy with quiet, buzzcut new guy. The hardass did most of the talking; Nick was worried, and he reassured him that it was an insult, not a threat, and that if we put a dowel in the window we’d be fine.

Around here, tons of people break in just to defecate on people’s floors, so in the grand scheme of things, we were lucky. I suppressed my giggles. Then the guys all bonded over classic guitars. I listened to them chat for a while, and then abruptly the cops moved toward the door, told Nick to just chuck the rubber in the trash, said “Goodnight, Young Lady” and stepped back into the night to resume protecting the good citizens of Brooklyn.