Friday after work, I met my BFitWWW at Porto Terra for happy hour. The Fritti Trio was okay, the star of the plate was the chickpea fries.
Porto Terra was chosen for its proximity to both the bus mall and the Fox 10 theaters, because after we’d thrown prayer books at each other (he was armed with the Church of South Africa prayer book and I had my trusty 1979 BCP) and drank our beers, we dashed over to catch the 5.15 showing of How to Train Your Dragon.
Which is an absolutely fantastic movie. Y’all should go see it. Really. It’s cute.
After that, we headed over to The Original for dinner. We both went for burgers, which were pretty good. I upgraded my fries to the poutine, which was glorious in all its fatty rich cheesy glory. BFitWWW had a salad and stole half my poutine. Because he is a stupidhead. We both agreed the mini cornbreads were excellent. There was something going on in the kitchen, though, our burgers came out on the wrong plates and we heard of other issues with other diners’ meals.
BFitWWW recommends their lemonade. I recommend their huckleberry rum punch, which was sweet without being cloying, and completely hid the alcohol until I had to stand up. I was squiffed, not drunk, which lead to some interesting linguistic contortions as BFitWWW walked me to my train and I headed home. I got home at 8.50pm.
Twenty minutes after I got home, there was a loud thud. I thought someone had fallen in the apartment next door. The next thud came from the front door, and I turned from the computer to see the knob on my front door rattling as if someone was trying to get in.
Which they were. Slamming bodily into the door and yelling something.
I grabbed my phone, purse, and netbook, and went to the back door, where I could keep an eyeball on the front door. At that point, inside was safe, but outside had someone banging on the door and who knows how many others out there. If the door failed and someone entered, I was going to be out the door and across the street to the fire station. I called 911, and as I’m on the phone with the dispatcher, the person yelling outside finally says something I can understand.
I’m so nonplussed by the comment I tell the 911 dispatcher, “They’re yelling for a blanket.”
The dispatcher assures me they’re sending someone on over, and tells me to call back if anything changes. Everything gets quiet during the call.
I proceed to spend the next three hours sitting by the back door. I boot up the netbook and am online for most of that time, but around midnight I snap awake and figure if nothing’s happened by now, I’m going to bed.
Saturday morning I call the Portland police non-emergency number and ask, essentially, what the heck happened. That was when I learned that two people were picked up in my complex’s yard and taken off to detox, and whoops, yeah, maybe the officers should have followed up with you.
I learned that even the least-serious 911 calls are supposed to be followed up within an hour, and I should have called back on Friday night.
The management company had just laid down some fresh mulch around my doorstep on Wednesday. When I went out my front door on Saturday, I could see tracks where someone had fallen in the mulch, and the muddy handprints and bootprints on my front door.