The Day I Accidentally Became Neighborhood Watch

It all started with a garbage can.

Not my garbage can, which is important. I don’t need anyone assuming I spend my mornings investigating municipal waste containers for entertainment. I have hobbies.

At approximately 7:15 on a Saturday morning, I looked out my kitchen window and noticed my neighbor’s garbage can lying in the middle of the road.

This was suspicious.

Mostly because garbage day was Thursday.

I stared at it while drinking my coffee.

“Interesting.”

It wasn’t interesting. It was a garbage can.

But Saturday mornings are apparently when my brain decides it needs a mystery.

I continued watching.

Five minutes later, a man appeared.

I had never seen this man before.

He wore a baseball cap, sunglasses and a hoodie despite the fact that it was already approximately nine thousand degrees outside.

Suspicious.

He walked toward the garbage can.

Very suspicious.

Then he looked around.

EXTREMELY SUSPICIOUS.

I moved closer to the window.

The man picked up the garbage can.

“Ohhhh, absolutely not.”

What exactly I believed he intended to do with the garbage can remains unclear.

Steal it?

Traffic it across provincial borders?

Sell it on the underground garbage-can market?

Nevertheless, I was invested now.

The man began wheeling it down the street.

I grabbed my phone.

Not to call the police. I hadn’t completely lost my mind yet.

I texted my neighbor.

“Is someone stealing your garbage can?”

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally: “What?”

I typed: “YOUR GARBAGE CAN. SOME GUY IS TAKING IT.”

No response.

Meanwhile, Garbage Can Bandit had reached the corner.

Time was running out.

So naturally, I put on shoes.

This is where the situation went from “mildly nosy neighbor” to “woman who may eventually be discussed at a condo-board meeting.”

I stepped outside.

The man kept walking.

I followed.

Not obviously.

I was casually walking in the same direction while staring intensely at the back of his head.

Completely different.

Then my neighbor came running out of her house wearing pajama pants.

“WHERE?”

I pointed dramatically.

“There!”

Now there were two of us.

Neither of us had discussed a plan.

Apparently the plan was simply to pursue the garbage can until somebody explained themselves.

The man glanced over his shoulder.

We immediately stopped walking.

Because that’s what innocent people do when caught following someone.

He started walking again.

So did we.

He turned around again.

We stopped.

At this point, subtlety had left the neighborhood entirely.

Finally, he stopped.

“Can I help you?”

My neighbor stepped forward.

“That’s my garbage can.”

The man looked at the garbage can.

Then at her.

Then at me.

Then back at the garbage can.

“No, it isn’t.”

There was a silence.

My neighbor squinted at it.

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s mine.”

“It was in front of my house.”

“It blew down the street last night.”

My neighbor folded her arms.

“I know my garbage can.”

The man sighed.

“Does yours have a giant number 47 spray-painted on the side?”

We both looked.

There, in enormous white numbers approximately the size of a highway sign, was:

My neighbor’s house number was 82.

We stood silently.

The man waited.

I suddenly became extremely interested in a tree.

My neighbor cleared her throat.

“Well.”

The man nodded.

“Yeah.”

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

Then, because abandoning me apparently seemed like the best available option, she said:

“This was her idea.”

Excuse me?

I stared at her.

“You texted me!”

“Because YOU texted ME!”

The man was now laughing.

Not chuckling.

Laughing.

The kind where you have to put your hand on something for support.

Eventually he explained that he lived around the corner and his garbage can had blown several houses down during the storm overnight.

Mystery solved.

No organized crime.

No garbage-can trafficking ring.

No suburban criminal mastermind.

Just wind.

We apologized.

Repeatedly.

Then we walked home.

Quietly.

Halfway back, my neighbor said, “We never speak of this again.”

“Agreed.”

We reached her driveway.

And there, sitting neatly beside her garage, was her garbage can.

Number 82 clearly visible on the side.

We stared at it.

Then at each other.

Neither of us said a word.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end there.

At approximately noon, I checked my mailbox.

Inside was a handwritten note.

It said:

“Dear Neighborhood Watch,

My recycling bin is also missing.

Please investigate.

— #47”

Attached to it was a photocopied picture of a garbage can with the words:

HAVE YOU SEEN ME?

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

The following Thursday, another sign appeared at the end of the street.

It featured a photograph of three garbage cans.

Underneath it someone had written:

“PLEASE HAVE IDENTIFICATION READY. RANDOM BIN CHECKS IN EFFECT.”

By Friday, my neighbor had taped a sign to her own garbage can:

“I AM 82. PLEASE DO NOT RESCUE ME.”

Mine now says:

“NOT A WITNESS.”

And that is how I accidentally became Neighborhood Watch.

My first investigation lasted approximately eleven minutes.

I solved absolutely nothing.

And somehow I still have jurisdiction over garbage.

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