by J. Corso
All he had to do was pick up the phone. Yet he hesitated. He had dialed 9-1-1 several times over the past year. The cops at the station told him it was getting to be a habit.
There was the time the kids next door were listening to some horrific new style music at 3:a.m. Or what they thought was music. It was a nerve-grinding noise, loud enough to shake the whole building down. The cops who came that time were very sympathetic. They had teenagers of their own.
Then the time someone had let their dog out to roam the neighborhood and tear up the neighbor’s gardens, or leave deposits on their lawns. The cops weren’t so understanding that time. Well, it wasn’t their well-cared for lawn.
He recalled the time he called 9-1-1 to complain about a late pizza delivery. He had to admit, it was a bit of an overkill. But the pizza was ice-cold. To anyone who enjoyed pizza, that was a crime.
The cops were supposed to serve and protect. They didn’t have anything better to do. They just didn’t want to leave their donuts and coffee. It was a bit much when one told him he could be charged with frivolous use of their time. From then on, he’d resolved to stop imposing on the cops and tried to deal with things on his own.
Even now, he hesitated before calling the police station. But someone had to know about the body in his living room. The salesman who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Maybe he shouldn’t have tried to deal with everything on his own.
Word Count: 277