This is the story of how our insane landlady called the police on me at 3:30 on a Saturday morning.
One might expect there was a noise complaint. Or possibly disturbing sounds. Or the smell of a rotting corpse. None of the above.
Friday night, I was coming home with my cousin from a bar. I get to the door and realize, shit, I left my keys on the kitchen counter. On one hand, at least my landlady lives above me and I can just ring the doorbell. On the other hand, we were still on pretty bad terms.
Back-story: Alex's last post touched on this a little bit. The landlady and I had an argument the week before when I tried to explain to her why going through my clothes and personal things (and hiding garbage under the covers of my bed) was unacceptable. She responded by saying she had been "just waiting" for me to come upstairs and talk to her about this. And that the only reason I had a problem with her going through my things is because I'm a classist bitch who thinks I'm better than her because I have a degree (which, by the way, I don't). And while I tried to get over the shock of this strange reaction and formulate a response indicating that I don't want anyone going through my stuff, regardless of their education, she continued to yell at me and made some comments which I'm still too upset about to share on a public forum.
So back to our story. She does live right upstairs, but the last thing I want to do is talk to her, let alone ask her for help. My cousin, Shelagh, had met our landlady twice that day. She benevolently offers to ring the doorbell. I hear Shelagh explain into the intercom what had happened and ask to be let in. June says no because she didn't understand why I couldn't just let Shelagh in.
I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and go up to the intercom. "June? It's Andrea. I'm here with my cousin. I can't let her in because my keys are locked inside the apartment. I know it's late. I'm sorry to wake you up, but can you just let us in?"
Silence. Then I hear her voice crackle over the intercom. "Why can't Alex just let you in?"
"Alex isn't here right now. He's out of town visiting family."
Silence. And then I hear the intercom turn off. June comes to my door and lets us in. I thank her and go downstairs to my apartment. Shelagh and I get ready for bed and go to sleep.
Since Alex was out of town, Shelagh was sleeping in Alex's room. Around 3 30 am, she wakes up to flashlights coming in through a tiny window in the room. And then voices saying, "There's definitely someone sleeping in there." She comes to the realization that the voices were police officers and they were talking about her. Then she hears a discussion in which the police officers explain that nothing was going on in the apartment. Just sleeping. And then June insisting they go in anyway. 30 seconds later she hears sharp knocks at my kitchen door accompanied by, "POLICE. OPEN UP!"
"Hold on!" she yells. "I'll go wake up Andrea. This isn't my apartment."
She comes into my room and says, "Andrea. Get up. Put on clothes. The cops are here."
"What cops?"
"...the cops"
"No they're not. The actual cops?"
"Goddammit. Yes. Hurry up."
I throw on a rain coat (because to hell with getting dressed) and stomp up to the door, very sure that Shelagh is mistaken. I fling open the kitchen door, and much to my surprise, there are two police officers standing there.
"Oh. Can I help you?"
"Are you Andrea?"
"...yes."
"And you live here?"
"...yes."
"Ma'am, step out of your apartment." [They may or may not have said 'ma'am' - I was far from sober. But in my head, police officers say ma'am.]
I step out of the apartment. June is standing there, clutching her robe, saying, "Yes officers. Yes. That's her."
Part of my is thinking I'm about to get arrested for whatever story June has concocted. Part of my is still in shock.
Then the officer says, "Ok. Just checking. Your landlady called us saying she had let your cousin into the apartment and then realized she didn't know her. She was worried strangers were looting the place."
"Wait. Stop. No. She let both of us in. She had a conversation with me. She knew I was there, and she knew that I had just locked myself out of the apartment."
Silence.
The officers look at each other, look at me, and one of them mumbles an apology for disturbing me.
I shake my head and tell him, "You're doing your job. You're not the problem here." I look up at June and say, "She's the problem here."
As I walk back in my apartment, I hear the officers start having a little chat with my landlady about when it's appropriate to call 9-1-1.
