Of Whom Am I Afraid?

On personal safety and therapy. James Tate. Spiritual verses to help you make it through.

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Last Monday night, a few minutes after dinner, as our kids wound down for bedtime, I noticed a man maneuver around our two sizeable outdoor garbage cans,  jump up onto the three-foot high rock wall and make his way into a stack of thick bushes along the side of the house. He did this with supreme agility and an absence of concern for what most people would agree was brazen trespassing. I watched this happen from the upstairs office of the house we're renting, which usually offers more peaceful views. There's a large window with excellent sightlines of the old Hollywood hillside homes nestled in the clouds, along with the new lushness along the winding paths in the neighborhood from all the winter rain.  

Our oldest son, age 6, is jumpy—he's startled by strange noises, and since we've moved in, is convinced angry owls are peering into the windows at night or that there is a prowler on the roof. I pulled my wife, Julieanne, aside and quietly told her what I thought I saw and that I was headed down to figure out where he went. But my son heard the whispering and immediately became concerned. "Is everything okayyyyyy? Where's dad going!"

"He'll be right back. He's checking the trashcans." 

To the left of the trash cans, there is a gorgeous lemon tree with huge lemons that often fall and roll down the road and get stuck underneath the tires of some of the cars parked along the narrow streets. The owner of the house still comes by every couple of weeks to get some camera equipment out of the garage, and he texted me about them: "They're big this year. Perfect for lemonade."

I walked to the front area near the trash cans, a little further past the rock wall. I saw the man who jumped the wall crouched underneath my five-year-old daughter Ivey's bedroom window. He had two open backpacks and a toilet paper roll out. His neck and knuckles had jagged, faded tattoos, and his hands were covered in grime. A fat lemon sat right next to him.

"You can't be here," I said. I could tell this person was agitated. My body tightened. 

"Are you following me?" the man said. 

I was weirdly unafraid. I was excited to have something entirely out of the ordinary go down on what had been a pretty uneventful Monday up to that point. I was also vibrating due to the prospect of violence—the dad-goon part in me that would have been unleashed had shit gone awry. But first things first—what's the most peaceful way to make a maniac go away? My first instinct was to bang against the trash can like I was trying to scare away a bear. 

"No, man. You're in our yard. Ya gotta go." 

He began to gather his things but didn't take his eyes off me. 

"I know you're following me. I've seen you before." 

Once he had all his stuff, he jumped off the rock wall as quickly and athletically as I'd watched him do from the window. He had two book bags. One was pink and similar to the one Ivey takes with her to school, although the one he carried was surprisingly less filthy than hers. 

He kept turning around as he walked away. 

"I recognize you," he said. And then finally–

"I will be back."