ALLEN LAW FIRM

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Please read the hilarious true story. Names and some details have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals. This is not the actual building narrated in the story.



Click! Click! Click!
The sound of a four-wheeler engine could be heard faintly from a little distance away.
Click. Click!
Now, the sound of the engine was within a disturbing distance.
Click.
Less than in seconds, the sound was pummeling my eardrums.
Can I help you? Asked the man on the four-wheeler.
Having had heard this question only God knows how many times in my life I knew what it meant: what are you doing in my property? Why are you taking picture of my house, boat, condo, barn, wife, horse, satellite dish, truck, junk, pet, lot, fence, door…and any million of things that exist under the sun whether they belonged to someone private, company, government, nature or God. In this case it was a million dollar castle-like house. My answer, though rarely varies, is always the same, after a long pause and, “not that damn question again! Can’t you people get a bit more creative, that is.
Not unless you know how to take pictures, I said casually.
Are you taking picture of my house?
Yes, sir. I think I am.
Why?
Still adjusting the settings, looking for a different angle, I said, I take pictures of beautiful things. And…I pause, wearing a fake curious expression. “Are you the care-taker? The butler? The reason I’m asking cause even the caretaker or the maid use the expression ‘my house’, like they own the thing…this castle, or whatever.
I’m the owner and you’re trespassing.
That goddamn word hits me right between my eyes every time. That word, after 9/11, that replaced 'Amen' in a pious mind; replaced doubt to trust, love to hate, evil to good, friends to enemies, colors to faces and places...
No, I’m not.
Huh?
I resume. Click! Click!
And can you, please, turn that thing off? I’m not really enjoying this engine noise
I’m paying tax for this, not you.
Good. Uncle Sam must be proud of you.
Do you always go into people’s property and take pictures without asking permission?
Sharks begin swimming in my head. Yes, I said. But we don’t go knocking on people’s door, disrupting their privacy asking for permission.
We?
Professionals! Law-abiding citizens who bear A-Wear-Ness of the law and the privacy of others . Where other’s privacy starts yours ends. The latter is my motto, not in the book.
But you’re trespassing!
The sharks transform into little harmless fish.
I’m not trespassing. See, I point at the white painted wooden fence. You’re on the other side of the fence and I’m on this side. If you’ve had owned this side, here, where I’m standing…hey! Look at where I’m pointing! Here! You’d have built your fence here and not here!
Does Terry know you’re in his property?
A shark tries to push or swallow the little fish in my head, but my brain stops it.
I sigh. Not ‘nless he is a psychic. And who the hell is Terry?
Terry is my brother. You could’ve asked him.
I turn around. I look at the ram-shackle, falling apart barn. Someone lives in there? Ter?—
Terry.
Right. Terry.
You, Mr…?
Ratcliffe. Trey Ratcliffe.
Cute names. Terry and Trey Ratcliffe. And Terry, your brother. Lives. There. In that pig-stile and you live in that castle, right?
Pause.
Friendly, conspiratorial tone. Listen, Mr Ratcliffe. Don’t get all cute and smart ass with me. I don’t know what’s your stash in that shack or in your castle. I’m not a cop. . Excuse the pun Mr Ratcliffe but I couldn’t care a rat’s ass. In this town if you own a house worth a million dollar, you’re stinking-dirty motherfucker. In LA if you own a house worth five mil. And you’re not a celeb actor or sports legend-Tiger-Fucking-woods or the likes, you’re stinking-dirty just the same. What do you do for living? How could you afford this house?
Silence. Mr Ratcliffe only stares, perplexed. Not expecting such an encounter in his present life.
Now, Ima gonna go. I’m losing light. I’m losing the sun.
You’re weird. You’re talking about the sun. What’s your name?
Take the license plate and call the sheriff, Mr Ratcliffe”.
As I drive away, I glance at the side mirror. Mr Ratcliffe driving his four-wheeler like a mad man toward his castle. Good. Call the Sherriff, I mutter to myself.

Almost ten minutes later.
As I look through the view finder, I hear screeching, breaking noise behind me. Then the sound of slamming door of a vehicle.
You’re not going anywhere! barks Mr Ratcliffe, holding a cell phone in his hand. He flips it open and punches the obvious three digits that will be answered by a practiced voice, "911. How can I help you?" routine.
Oh, you again, I say in an indifferent tone. Mr Ratcliffe.
The Chevy truck parked face to face with my Audi, blocki