A sixty-year-old man who lived two blocks from us jumped in the bed of his pick-up truck after he heard its engine start and saw it being driven away. To try to dump the guy, the driver and his friend crashed into a car and hit eight other cars, then rolled the truck on our friends' street, just two blocks away from their house. All this activity in just six blocks, starting three little blocks from our apartment.
We could see police cars blocking off the street when we pulled onto our street to park after a trip to LA; it was nearly midnight and we decided just to go into our home to stay safe, since in our graffiti art/holiday decoration/dog walking/car-break-in neighborhood you never know what might be happening.
Our friends told us.
So much for believing that our neighborhood was safe...
When I first heard that a guy jumped into a stolen truck, I figured he was young--like in his twenties at the oldest. Then, when I heard he was sixty I pictured one of the lovely crack-heads or meth addicts we sometimes see or hear about, but according to the Union-Tribune story he was a handyman who loved his truck, whose sister said he was looking forward to visiting his mother in an assisted-living facility as soon as he could drive when his driver's license was reinstated.
Bizzarrio in the barrio.
Imagine if we'd been walking the puppies. Or coming home from hanging out with some friends.
After the truck rolled, the guys ran away. One of them got caught. One did not. The police blocked off the street and our other friends couldn't drive past the yellow tape to get home.
So there it is. Home sweet home.