The realtor in charge of the property for the foreclosing bank knew me, from my law work. He stopped by my house one evening and asked me if I had a key to the place, and I did. He took it from me and said, "Pete, I'll return your key to you, in case you need to get into the house for the bank if our listing runs out."
The following Saturday, the realtor still had not made the copies or installed a key lock box. He called me around noon and said, "Pete, I was lazy and stupid. I was walking around with the key to the house in my pocket all week long, without making copies or installing a lock box. When I showed the house to an interested party two days ago, I accidentally locked your key on the inside of the house. I noticed that the latch on the window in the back bedroom is broken. We could gain access through there and recover the key from where I left it in the kitchen, on the counter. Do you have a ladder you could use to go into that window, recover the key for me and lock the place back up? I'll be there very shortly."
I thought, "What a harebrain!" I answered, "I'll do it, but you owe my law practice a referral!" He agreed.
So, I went and got one of my ladders, placed it against the rear of the house, and start climbing up the ladder to get in.
And, of course, one of the new neighbors on the other side of the block looked out their back window and saw a "suspicious male climbing into a house with a ladder" and call ed 911.
And, of course, this, in essence, is what the police arriving on the scene got to see ...
"Ahem," one of the police went.
I thought, "Ah [expletive deleted]!"
Now, the problem with my situation that day was that day -- it was a Saturday, when the "weekenders," the police from out-of-town, were on patrol in Magnolia to supplement their regular incomes. They didn't know me.
For all they knew, they had caught a daylight burglar, well, not "red-handed," but red-somethinged.
I said, "My name is Pete Dawson. I am the lawyer who lives next door. The realtor on the 'For Sale' sign on the front lawn is on his way here now. Here is my cell phone. Call him and he will ID me and tell you that in fact he gave me authorization to go into the back window to recover the house key he accidentally left on the kitchen counter."
And, of course, when the police tried the realtor's number, nobody answered.
And, of course, the realtor never arrived as he had promised.
Damn!
I said, "Look, guys, before you cuff me and take me in, get Dispatch to connect you with the Police Chief, Rob Doyle."
Luckily, they agreed. Rob had them ask me two questions only I would know the answers to, and told them what the answers had to be. I gave the correct answers, and I was in the clear.
The "weekenders" crankily instructed me to "please call the Police in advance before you pull a stunt like that again."
The realtor finally called on my cell phone, just before the police left, and the "weekenders" yelled at him, too, for being really stupid.
The realtor asked me for the name of my favorite alcoholic beverage, to "make it up to you."
I said, "Ouzo."
And, of course, he never brought me a bottle.
And that is the true story of how I was literally left with my ass hanging out the window, in Magnolia.
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