A Knock at My Door

The kids and I were gathered around the table eating a nice calm dinner and thoroughly enjoying each others' company when suddenly there was a banging on the front door, shattering the peace in the house.

Ok, ok.

So we weren't gathered around the table. We were plopped in the living room watching another episode of Pinky Dinky Doo or some such nonsense. Kairi was sitting in the middle of the floor crying because I refused to let her eat french fries until she ate the hot dog she asked for. Alex was frustrated because his straw poked a hole through his Sonic cup, so I was trying to pour his drink into a sippy as fast as I could while holding the phone between my shoulder and head, trying not to cough into my mother-in-law's ear but still keep the conversation going. And in my head the mantra "early bedtime early bedtime early bedtime" played on repeat.

When the front door began to shake from the pounding it received on the other end, it didn't shatter our peace. If anything, it made the house as close to silent as it had been since naptime ended 4 hours earlier. The only sound was now Pinky Dinky Doo's song ... a mere murmur in the background.

I put the phone down. Gave the sippy to Alex. And walked to the front door. I chained it before opening it up -- thankful the moment I had the door cracked open that I had thought of the chain.

Standing on the other side of my door, he was furious. I could see the vibrations of his anger roll off of his body. Fists, covered in black leather motorcycle gloves with silver studs, were balled up at his sides and were the very first things I noticed. Clad in all leather riding gear, leather riding boots, and a pair of sunglasses, his bare arms underneath his leather vest displayed large toned muscles, and were again flexed as if he was trying to keep his anger under control. His legs were planted shoulder length apart as if to say that nothing would move him from his task. I had no idea who this man was, or what he wanted, but I knew he was mad, and I knew that he meant business.

I raised my eyebrows, determined to stay calm, "Yes?"
"I need to talk to Michael. NOW."
"Michael?" I was bewildered. The only Michael I know lives in Texas, and is my dad. I couldn't imagine someone coming to MY house looking for him. Not when I'm in Florida.
"Yes. MICHAEL. Is he home?"
"No sir. He's not home because he doesn't live here."
"Where is he?"
"Umm...I don't know. I don't know a Michael. At least not one that you would be looking for. The only one I know is over 1000 miles away in Texas, and is my father."
"So what you're telling me is that a Michael Harmon doesn't live here? What you're telling me is that you don't know Michael Harmon at all?"
"Yes sir. That's what I'm saying."
At this point Kairi pushed between me and the door to see who was there. When he looked at her, the anger melted from his body. He smiled at her and then smiled at me.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but only my husband, Christopher, and I live here with our children. There's no one else here."
And then it hit me. Michael Harmon. I get his mail all the time. Michael Harmon. I think that he's the guy that there was a notice for on the door of the house when I first moved in from the local credit union. I think that he was in a lot of trouble with them at the time.

The man, whose name I never caught so we'll call Mr Bike, and I began to chat. Michael had backed over Mr Bike while he was on his motorcycle in the Walmart parking lot. Michael had traded information Mr Bike, including insurance info, driver's license numbers, and addresses, and had gotten Mr Bike to agree to not contact the insurance company unless it was absolutely necessary. But then Michael did not return Mr Bike's phone calls. Michael started trying to dodge having to pay for bike repairs and medical bills. Mr Bike isn't putting up with it.

So today, Michael Harmon, whoever you are, Mr Bike is calling your insurance company. Mr Bike is also calling the DMV and Sheriff's office to report that you have an address on your license has been wrong for at LEAST 14 months, but probably longer. And when you get into trouble, Michael Harmon, I won't feel badly for you. I watched Mr Bike limp away from my house, barely able to crawl up onto his bike that's beaten up on just one side, and then drive away. And it hit me, that one day that might be MY Mr Bike (aka Chris) that you run over. When that happens, you'll have to face ME. And it also hit me, that if you end up getting into trouble, and a warrant goes out for your arrest, that it is MY house that JSO is going to be searching first, and THAT my friend, won't fly.