One recent evening, around dinner time, I was putting away warm-weather clothes for storage, taking note of how dark it had gotten outside at an early hour. I head a jiggling of the doorknob at the front door, and assumed it was my husband coming home from his job. I went downstairs to greet him, carrying with me a large bag of giveaway clothing my kids had outgrown, and to my surprise, through the front door glass I saw a stranger attempting to open my door.
Then I saw that it was not one person, but two. The young man trying to open my door wore a white do-rag under a cock-eyed baseball hat, as well as a heavy beige jacket. The heavy-set young woman with him wore multiple piercings on her face, and glasses. This much I could barely see as I glanced through the glass of the door.
I set the large bag down. My heart was in my throat. The pair stood there trying to see inside. It was an odd time for solicitations as well as robberies, so I figured my chances in opening the door were fine. But it’s always a bit disorienting when strangers are trying to get in without knocking.
A vision of a knife, or a gun, coming out of the man’s jacket swarmed before my eyes. Part of me fully expected to be visited by a home invasion like this. It engulfed me as I unlocked the door’s bolt and opened the door about 12 inches. "Hi," I said, waiting. The man made no moves, and the woman, off to the side, did not jump me.
"Uh, second floor?" the man said. I looked at them, wide-eyed. My heart had leapt into my mouth.
"This is a single-family house," I responded, missing only half a beat, my tongue working its way around my heart. The two of them exchanged glances. "Do you know what number you’re looking for?"
At this, the young woman looked restless, and started running her fingers through her hair, searching the street to the left and right of my front porch. "No…" she said. "You know what? I’m really sorry. We got the wrong house." The man just stood there, clearly not in the lead on the situation.
"Yeah. Do you know the name?" I offered. "Maybe I can help you." Suddenly it occurred to me that even if they knew the name, I probably wouldn’t be able to help them. It’s not as though I’m on a name-basis with that many neighbors, and there’s a fair amount of turnover.
The woman shook her head and looked distracted, telling me, "No…" and then, "You know what? I think we wanted that house," pointing to my next-door neighbor’s place. When I closed the door, I realized that I was trembling violently. I guess I’m just not used to unexpected visitors.
