If you want to control someone, all you have to do is to make them feel afraid. — Paulo Coelho
Vandals
It began innocently enough. Occasional laughter from the darkened schoolyard—the sound of dirt bikes—and when the wind was right, the acrid stench of pot.
“Teenagers blowing off steam,” my neighbour said.
We both eyed the darkened school and the lake of darkness beyond the yard where the park began.
We had moved from downtown to the Bluffs—that’s what everybody called the eight-mile long escarpment that formed the eastern portion of Toronto’s waterfront.
It was the perfect idyllic retreat, or, so we thought—until the nightly revelry began—waking the kids and ruining our sleep.
I put up with the noise for several weeks before finally deciding to act.
“Hey, can you guys keep it down, please? We’ve got young kids and you’re waking them.”
They were sitting around a huge Maple tree sipping beer.
There were about a half dozen of them—two guys and the rest tarty-looking chicks.
“Well, what’s in it for us?” The tallest boy asked—he was obviously the leader.
“Look, I don’t want to make trouble for you guys—I used to hang out when I was a teenager too—I’d just like you to keep the noise down.”
“You’re not the boss of us,” a hard-looking blonde girl snarled. “Who do you think you are—Control of the Neighbourhood?”
“C’mon guys—I’m not trying to rain on your parade. I just want a little cooperation.”
The tall boy stood up and his friend stood with him. They looked menacing.
“I’d advise you to run home now, Mister Rogers—while you can still walk.”
Nice. There’d be no cooperation here.
The following morning, our garbage cans were emptied and the contents scattered all over our front lawn.
“They’re taking it to another level,” my buddy, Cliff, smiled as he downed his draft.
We were sitting in a bar overlooking the lake—our mid-week tradition—play a little shuffleboard, talk sports and drink a few draft.
Cliff was in the residential-commercial security alarm business and ex-military.
I smiled good-naturedly.
“Take it to another level, you say—how many levels are there?”
“Four, Jim—there’s four.”
He wasn’t smiling—he was dead serious.
“You better explain,” I said, nervously sipping at my draft.
“Level One—you’ve already passed—talking to them. If there was any good will that would be that.”
Yup,” I smiled cynically, “ cross that one off the list.”
“Level Two—you call the cops.”
“Is that necessary?” I asked, “After all, they’re just teenagers.”
“You got another suggestion?”
I shook my head.
“If that doesn’t work, you go to Level Three—security lights, motion detectors—maybe even night cameras.”
“Do those devices work?”
He shrugged.
He made a circular motion with his hand to the waitress and she came by dropped another round.
After she left, I grabbed Cliff’s sleeve. “Hey, you didn’t say what Level Four was.”
He shook his head. “You don’t want to go there.”
“Yeah? Well, it might help if I knew what the hell it was.”
He looked at me glassy eyed.
“Level Four is when you take matters into your own hands—when you realize the law can’t protect you or your family.”
I grew very somber.
Cliff clapped me on the back.
“Cheer up, Pal—it usually doesn’t come to that. Kids want a place to smoke and hang out—they don’t want attention. They’ll most likely move on to a new spot.”
“And if they don’t?”
He got unsteadily to his feet, knowing he reached his limit.
“If they don’t go—then it’s all-out war—Level Four.”
I drove him home with an uneasy feeling in my gut.
The young police constable was sympathetic.
“We’ll warn them and take it from there,” he said.
His colleague nodded.
“They seemed pretty defiant.”
“That was with you, “ The officer smiled. “Things usually change when we check ID and threaten to charge.”
“You’re probably right,” I conceded. “These kids were well-dressed—not gang bangers, or anything like that.”
‘Right—so they’ll likely move on.”
I watched as they returned to their squad car and drove off into the night.
At midnight, the familiar sounds of laughter and clinking bottles drifted across the street from the park.
Suddenly, a squad car appeared.
As the two officers with flashlights got out, the growl of dirt bikes filled the air—and in a matter of seconds, they were gone.
My heart sank. I knew we were moving to Level Three.
“What is all this stuff?” I asked Cliff.
“These are nifty little devices I’m going to loan you. There are night vision binoculars and a parabolic listening device—that’s for you to keep tabs on these guys.”
“Cool,” I enthused.
“They’re means of reconnoitering the enemy—hopefully, the motion sensor lights and cameras will deter them from coming near your property.”
“I sure hope these kids get the message.”
Cliff looked at me strangely. “Yeah, well, we’ll see if they do.”
The lights kept going off and on all night—whenever they did, I’d leap out of bed and see what I could see—but there was no one.
I woke up the next day to find all four of the tires on my SUV were slashed and the body keyed—a deep scratch that ran the length of both sides.
I had to make an insurance report and call the police.
The same young constable attended—he looked sheepish.
“Sorry you have to put up with this Mr. Lawson. We’ll step up the patrols tonight.”
For two nights, we had a respite—no laughter, no dirt bikes—no acrid scent of pot drifting across the street.
The third night, all four tires were slashed again.
This time, the Insurance lady was not as understanding. “These vandalism claims are going to affect your rates, Mr. Lawson.”
“What can I do? —They’re not my fault.”
“Maybe you could consider moving.”
Two young kids and a third on the way—and all our money tied up in the new home. Moving just wasn’t an option.
Cliff was sympathetic. “I think it’s time to move to Level Four, Pal.”
“What—take the law into my own hands?
“The law should protect you—it’s not doing that. You’ve got a pregnant wife and two young kids. What the hell are you supposed to do?”
“I don’t know,” I sighed, “I just don’t know.”
To be continued...
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