Absolutely Bananas: Seattle mom blog

The man with the fighting stick (whose name is Mud)

We’re sitting on our back patio, enjoying a leisurely evening meal, when we hear him.

HY-UH!

HAI!

HUH!

HAY-HU-HUUUH!

I look at Jay and he raises an eyebrow.  What is going on in the alley behind our house?

I leap up and race to the back fence, peering through a slat between cedar fence posts.  There, behind our house, is a man whirling a five-foot-long martial arts fighting stick over his head.

He crouches, then he leaps.  He jabs and turns and grunts.  Then he stumbles.

Even from my narrow vantage point, it’s clear that he’s had WAY too much to drink.

I get that sick feeling in my stomach.  Dinner is totally ruined.

“Mommy, WHAT IS IT?!” CJ asks.

“A bad guy.” I say, “Don’t go over there.  DON’T make any noise.”

CJ’s eyes widen.

Jay looks at me with disgust.  “It’s not a BAD guy,” he says, “Just a weird guy.”

Hmmph. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to.  No matter how you say it, all I know is he SHOULDN’T BE HERE, behind our house.

“It’s ok,” Jay assures me, “I’m sure he’s harmless.”

And sure enough, when our neighbor-across-the-alley comes out and gets in her car, the man with the big stick vanishes.

Jay walks around and through the gate to make sure he’s gone.

“Daddy!” CJ tugs at his shirt, “Daddy!  Is the man with the stick STILL THERE?”

“No,” Jay assures him, “I scared him off.  He knew his name was Mud and he took off.”

CJ is impressed with the POWER that is daddy.  “You scared him away!”

I’m not so sure.  I remember seeing him walking down the alley several hours earlier, stick propped across his shoulder. I fear that our backyard might be his new preferred venue for drunken-martial-arts-with-stick practice.

We sit back at the table, but this time, we’re all on edge.

“All I know is, if he comes back, I’m calling the police,” I say.

“Oh Jen, he’s harmless.”  Jay honestly seems unruffled.  Still, I’m not convinced.

And, fifteen minutes later, he’s back.

This time, Jay tells me to call the police.  He’s seen the guy with the stick in all his glory, and agrees that this is not the type that we want hanging out behind our house.

I call the local precinct, where the on-call officer directs me to call 9-1-1.

And so I do.

I don’t call 911 very often and talking to the policeman on the other end makes me nervous.  My heart is racing and I stumble over my words.  The very nice operator on the other end gently guides me through, and then asks for descriptors of our kung-fu friend.  The funny thing is, the main thing I remember is the STICK.

I’m sure he had clothing, and a relative height, and a race, and hair color… but those things seem to have vanished from my mind.

I make an attempt at describing him, and go to hang up.

CJ tugs urgently at my shirt.  Which is surprising, because he knows that I’m on the phone WITH THE POLICE and so far has been miraculously quiet and well-behaved.

Note to self: next time I want to have a normal telephone conversation, tell CJ that I’m talking to the police.

“Mommy!” he exclaims, “Mommy!”

I hang up, and CJ moans, “Mommy, you forgot to tell the police that his name is Mud!”

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