As a 23-year-old, living alone in a small but cozy trailer, my 15-year-old neighbor came to my door screaming and crying, “Tim has my mom on the floor by her hair!” I was never so thrilled to see three cop cars, sirens blazing, flying down the hill toward our road. What would I have done if they hadn’t come? Or hadn’t come so instantly? I’m grateful.
But (you heard it coming), I look at this picture and feel irritated. Irritated that I had to account for my actions to a stranger, even one so nice and polite.
“M’am, we received a police report that someone is taking a lot of pictures of the Mall.”
“Well, I wasn’t actually taking ‘a lot’ of pics of the Mall,” I explained.
He asked to see the shots. Leaning over the view finder to shade against the sun — he didn’t want to hold the camera himself — he watched as I clicked through pics of the new Dillards construction, flowers, my dog, the above fire hydrant, a motorcycle, a row of hedges, a blue mail box. This seemed to alleviate his concern.
“Are you sure you’re not doing espionage for another mall?” I laughed. In an effort to explain why he stopped me he shared: recently Mall security questioned a woman who had taken hundreds of pics of Mall fire exits. She refused to talk, so security turned her over to the police, who she also refused to talk with. And then there was the laborer working on the new Dillard’s construction who was caught snapping pics of the blue prints.
So, maybe the crisply dressed security guy had a reason to talk to me. But I’m still irritated. And he wouldn’t let me take a pic of his tattoo either. Grrrr.