The Wrong Side of the Tracks

A frequent joke around my house is that we live on “the wrong side of the tracks.”  Though the town I reside in is affluent overall, there is a noticeable disparity of wealth south of the train tracks.  There are complaints by the town’s southern residents that the police and elected officials give preferential treatment to the north side of town, to which I feel there is a good deal of validity.  That said, however, I use the phrase in jest since our lifestyle is hardly hard-knock and dangerous like the term would suggest.
 
Perhaps I was wrong.  On Monday morning, the police arrived at our house (unfortunately, not an uncommon occurrence) to warn us about a potentially dangerous individual on the loose.  Apparently, a robbery suspect knocked on our neighbor’s door, pushed the home owner to the ground, ran through the house breaking things, then escaped out the back where ey hopped over our wall and was in our yard for a while.
 
At the time, only Alice and Katy were home and they were oblivious to the incident.  Since the backdoor had been open so the dogs could let themselves out to urinate, there was a possibility the robber could have gotten in our house.  While Katy bravely searched the house, the officer inspected our trailer and garage with a drawn gun.  Alice compared the unexpected, surreal drama to an episode of 7th Heaven, which I find oddly appropriate. 
 
The police returned to our house two more times that day poking about, leading us to be concerned that perhaps there was legitimate concern that this wanted individual was lingering on our property.  They refused to provide details or answer questions on what exactly was going on.  Days later, the police are still circling our neighborhood and there’s even been a police helicopter flying overhead.
 
Consequently, our house’s terrorist alert color is currently on red.  Above everything, Amber is concerned that someone might steal the dogs.  Shea insists that would never happen because the dogs are “used.”  I prefer the term “well-loved.”
 
For two years now, we’ve never even locked the doors; in fact, I no longer even owned a house key.  In light of recent events, we’ve had to change this procedure and are actively securing our abode.  I sleep with a pitchfork for protection.  Okay, not really, but I am sure to leave my floor extra messy so that anyone who intrudes is likely to trip and fall on the debris.
 
Actually, I hope that a robber is secretly living in our house so that we can capture em and be interviewed on the local news.  Or we could barter with the police to turn em over for the dismissal of all of our unpaid parking tickets.  Also, if it turns out ey is living here, we’d probably let em get away with it, no questions asked, so long as the robber agrees to do occasional yard work and chip in on the water bill every once in a while.  There’s actually precedence for that in our house, even.
 
The more I think about it, the more I pity the people who live on “the right side of the tracks.”  They may be rich in money, but are they rich in adventure and excitement?  Not likely.