After a night in which, at least for one week, I reversed the Patriots' playoff curse at my friend Dianne's house, I was pretty overjoyed and happy to be driving down my home street at 2:30 a.m.
When I got there, though, I saw flashing lights. And three police cruisers blocking the driveway to my house. They've apparently stopped a couple of cars several pedestrians, a total of about a dozen of people who, while not outwardly committing any crimes, seem to be somewhat unproductive members of society. I live in a Victorian house that's the only residential building on my block. I can imagine someone else who lives here may have dropped a dime on the cops that these folks were being loud and boisterous late at night. (Overcelebrating the Patriots, maybe?)
Clearly I will be unable to pull into the back of the house where my designated parking spot is. Thus, I am trapped. I could park on the street, but I do not know these people or what their purpose is. I don't want to leave my car unattended. Nor do I want to get out of the car, for the same reasons.
So I sit in the car, because, as I correctly predict, eventually one of the cops comes over to me.
"Can I help you?" the cop asks me.
"Yeah, I live right there," I say, pointing to my house.
"Oh, OK, we're just asking them to leave and making sure there are no warrants on any of them." He gestures one of the other cruisers to back up so I can pull into the driveway.
Five minutes later, the cars, people and cruisers are all gone, and I'm safe in my apartment. This was too good a night for anything bad to happen.