Lately, I'm having air-conditioning problems, so I go to the library at my condo community to cool off. It's not a real library—just a place with books on the shelf that some volunteers run. A library’s supposed to be a place for peace and quiet, but that wasn't to be on this sweltering August day. I'd found a book, and was settling in when two men—the “Two Stooges”—burst through the door and demanded to know if I lived in the community. I told them I did, and wanted them to leave me alone. But that wasn't happening. The guy who’d do most of the talking in this bizarre encounter—I’ll call him Moe—asked me to specify where I live. Pissed off about this interrogation, I told him that was none of his business. And that's when the fun started.
Some background is needed to explain the origins of this intrusion. I had, with me in the library, a large backpack stuffed with clothes. I'd just done my laundry at my parents’ nearby place, which I often do when I go over there to check on it while they're back in New York for the summer. I brought the knapsack into the library, because I was on my bike. I'd just bought some beer at the grocery store and decided to crack one open and do some reading. After putting my feet on the coffee table, I dozed off just for a minute right at the moment when a woman entered the room. What she saw was me asleep in a chair, a huge knapsack full of clothes, a beer on the floor, and my bicycle outside. I don't look homeless in any way, but can understand what she was thinking. There's been periodic problems there and at the nearby pool with homeless people spending the night. So the woman went to the “clubhouse”—an event space at which some residents were having a potluck dinner—and told her husband there was a homeless guy in the library. The husband and another man at the party then went to the library to conduct their investigation.
One approach would’ve been for me to be “reasonable” by handing my driver's license, which has my address on it, to my interrogators. But I'm not compliant in handing over my papers to self-appointed cops. So I told these guys to get lost and stop harassing me, which got snickers from them, which upped my anger level. Moe looked at “Larry” and said, “He's one of them.” Then it was really on. If these guys wanted to make asses out of themselves by playing a game they had no chance of winning, I was up for that. In the end, they were going to leave this room, mad as hell, without knowing my address.
Moe was unhappy that I wouldn't tell him where I live. While Larry was examining my backpack with a suspicious look, Moe told me that he'd spent 20 years doing security work, which explained why he came along on this citizen’s patrol mission. I suppose he thought this would impress me, but I told him I didn't care what kind of work he did. This pushed him to the brink of apoplexy. Now that his ego—his manhood—was involved, he dug his feet in even deeper. Moe wasn't leaving until he could convince himself he'd gotten the upper hand.
Smarmy, mostly-mute Larry, eyeing the beer on the floor as if it were some high crime, said, “Did you enjoy your beer?” I told him I did enjoy it, and asked how many beers he'd had at the party he'd been attending. No response. I told him I didn't feel like dealing with an aggressive partygoer under the influence of alcohol this evening, and also mentioned that I'd seen parties in this library with food, beer, and wine. Things weren't going for him the way he expected. He wasn't going to be able to return to the pot-luck as a hero.
Moe continued trying to explain why I should be on his side and cooperate with his investigation. He was indignant, which I didn't appreciate, but tried hard to sound like the reasonable one. His act of pretending to be the aggrieved party disgusted me, given the fact that he was the aggressor. I kept explaining that the conversation was over, but he pressed the same issue. I told him he should call the cops if he wanted to know where I live, and then deal with the cops for reporting a false incident. He sniggered at this suggestion, but it registered. He wasn't going to call the cops, as much as I wanted him to do so.
At this point, Moe knew he'd lost, but he wasn’t going away. The conversation went around in circles. The security guy couldn't leave until he’d saved face. He tried being conciliatory by saying, “Now that I see you, I know you're not homeless.” “Am I supposed to say, ‘thank you’ now?” I asked. Larry was still eyeing my knapsack, so I said to Moe, “Who’s your silent buddy”? Larry didn't like this, so he told me that the just-washed clothes in the knapsack looked dirty and that I was probably homeless. Enraged, I made a move towards him. He said, “Keep coming,” but Moe pushed him out the door and closed it.
I took my ID out of my wallet and asked Moe what he'd say to me if I showed it to him and he saw my address. But he wouldn't take it. “Why didn't you just show it to me at the beginning of this?” he said. The guy didn't get it. He made one pathetic, last-ditch effort to save face by saying, “I'll apologize to you if you apologize to me.” “Why the hell would I apologize to you?” I replied. “I was sitting here minding my own business in a library I have every right to be in when you two barged in here with your insults and false accusations.”
Moe, saying nothing, went out the door and headed back to the potluck, where he and Larry probably told everyone about this prick in the library. I got on my bike and tried to ride the frustration out of my system while pondering about how it’d go if I ever ran into the Two Stooges again. They owe me an apology, but cops and would-be cops don't apologize. To them, it's always the fault of the uncooperative types. I'll settle for not ever having to see either one of these dipshits again.