Gun Crazy

My girlfriend and I are spending a quiet evening at home. It's one of those Saturday nights you start to look forward to in your late thirties, a night with no plans. When a quiet evening at home with someone you love sounds better than a night out at the club.

My girlfriend Jamie is settling in on the couch with our dog, Bucky—a Wheaten terrier poo, the cutest thing ever. Fluffy, white, big brown eyes, and hair like a cotton ball on the top of his head. We've just finished dinner and we're about to watch a movie.

I sit down on the couch next to her—we're talking about what movie we want to watch—when there's a knock at the door.

Now it's the beginning of summer, and the days are getting long, especially here in Southern California, and people are staying later, and admittedly, Venice Beach, where I live, is a pretty popular area with locals and tourists alike. I live on a walk street just off the boardwalk, which is more secluded. Cars can't drive down my street, so it's typically just people passing through on their way to the beach or back to their car. But usually, it's pretty quiet despite the proximity to all the action, and you never—ever—get somebody knocking on your door unless they're coming to visit you. And like I said, we had no plans for the night.

I look at Jamie. Maybe it's some kind of salesman, although that's unusual for this hour on a Saturday night. I get up and go to the door.

"Who is it?" I ask.

"LAPD," comes the reply.

I look back at Jamie.

"LAPD," I mouth the words, confused. Why in the world would the cops be here?