Bogie's Shoes

When a Stranger Doesn't Knock

Photo by Stormseeker on Unsplash

I used to live in a big green house near the center of town. There was a sturdy lock on the front door but one night it failed and allowed a stranger into the hallway of our first-floor apartment. 

The visitor appeared at about 4 a.m. as a silhouette on the downstairs bedroom door. He cast a mean shadow. His dark hair was dripping wet from the rain he’d just stepped out of. His whiskered, jutting chin gave him a simian appearance. He had about him the stale odor of Jim Beam.

I met him in the hallway entrance. I asked who he was. He stared at me, then grinned. “Bill?” he said, as if we were engaged in a playful guessing game.

I became indignant. 

“Wrong, pal. You’re in the wrong apartment. (I actually called him “pal,” like Humphrey Bogart addressing some sniveling Nazi in Casablanca.) 

I suggested that he get lost somewhere else.

The stranger looked around the hallway.

“I shoulda known Bill wouldn’t live in a dump like this.”

I took a few steps toward the stranger as he turned to leave.

“Listen you …” I began.

He silenced me with a look, wagging an accusing finger at the useless front door lock.

“You call this a security system? Sheez. I just walked in. I can’t believe you’d leave your place open like this.”

I stood before him in my Dick Van Dykes, not quite believing what he said next.

“Lemme use yer phone.” 

A stranger waltzes into my home, mocks it, lectures me on locks then asks to use the phone? I told him I’d be using the phone -- to call the cops.

This suggestion apparently hurt his feelings. In a voice that mixed menace with self-righteousness, he repeated his request. My anger dissolved. I began a sober assessment of the situation, the first of its kind that morning.

I considered the legendary belligerence of drunks. I realized I’d spent the past few minutes belittling a stranger with a tender ego and a bellyful of booze who wasn’t eager to march out in the pouring rain without at least determining where on earth he was. 

I showed him to the living room, where he found the phone.

He called Bill’s place, got some directions, grunted, and hung up. With a drunk’s exaggerated daintiness, he avoided stepping on the children’s toys that lay scattered across the living room rug. He grew increasingly indignant not only at the mess on the floor but at what he continued to call my security system, muttering he wouldn’t have bothered me if I’d had a better one. It was all my fault. Boozily triumphant, he weaved his way to the front door, his face a picture of disgust at the low quality of strangers one finds asleep in their homes in the dead of night.

I thought to call the cops, then thought again. What would be the charge? Walking and entering? Without another word, Bill’s friend  stumbled out the door. I locked the security system behind him and tried to get back to sleep.

But I couldn’t stop brooding. The man had invaded my home. I’d kicked him out half-way, then let him back in to use the phone? Bogie would have socked the joker in the kisser, no questions asked. Even Dick Van Dyke would have done something amusingly inept to put the guy in his place and out of mine.

Not me. It stung me to realize that Bogie and I could never have been buddies. But on further reflection, I had to conclude that Bogie’s example hadn’t served me very well in the first place. After all, it wasn’t a really faulty lock that had Bill’s friend stagger into my life. It was my imitation of Bogie’s condescending sneer that made it impossible for the guy to leave without sneering back.

So, instead of trading knuckle sandwiches, we cut a deal. For the price of a phone call, I got Bill’s friend out of my house. Damages were limited to our respective egos. I’ve made worse deals.

But bruised egos heal slowly, which is why I find it impossible, even as time goes by, to wish the guy had a happy life. May he next stumble into Clint Eastwood's home.