Weapon of Choice

In the wee hours of Saturday I was roused by the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

I spent about 15 minutes slowly coming to and pondering what could have caused the noise. It sounded as though it was coming from the back of our abode. Then I remembered that earlier in the month my neighbor had some items unceremoniously removed from his house (during the bold, broad daylight, no less!)

I live in a relatively safe neighborhood. Most days I err on the side of easygoing pacifism, but still..

I peeked out the window and noticed that the porch light was on, meaning the housemateys were still out gallivanting and I was home seulement.

I strained my ears, heard some odd little noises and spent another, oh, 10 minutes or so wringing my hands and trying to decide the best course of action.

We actually have a firearm in the house, but I knew neither where it was nor how to use it. Frankly, I’ve never been able to stomach even holding a gun.

I weighed my options (Hide for several hours? Call the cops? Call my neighbors?) Eventually fear gave way to annoyance and with a heaping helping of wonky 2:30 am judgment, I decided that I really wanted to go back to sleep, even if that meant confronting the potential intruder. I grabbed my cell phone and reached for the only weapon available: My axe.

No, not the forged steel, brawny Paul Bunyan-fellin'-some-douglas-fir kind.

The kind of axe made solely for rockin’.

I am sad to tell you, dear reader, that I went through a longer deliberation process deciding which guitar I was going to render aforementioned intruder unconscious with than if I was going to be brave enough to see who was breaking into my house in the first place.

Unfortunately the obvious choices – an old Kay and the cruddy Squier Strat I bought when I was 16 – were upstairs in the attic.

I glanced at my 1952 Silvertone but immediately ruled it out because it feels like it’s made from balsa wood. Not too effective as a Louisville Slugger stand-in. Same with the old Yamaha classical guitar handed down to me from my mom.

I thought about my Danelectro DC bass, which immediately made me curse selling my old solid ash plank-'o-death Peavey. Solid = amazing sustain. They’d be hearing the sweet sound of me defending my turf for days.

I decided the DC would be too unwieldly. Which left me with just one option at my immediate disposal:
An Epiphone SG.*

(* In the interest of full disclosure, I have to admit that the aforementioned “axe” isn't exactly mine.
It’s kinda sorta on extended loan.
From an ex-boyfriend.
So, like, totally fair game, right?)

I put on my shoes, grabbed the guitar and cell phone, dialed 9-1-1 and, with a modicum of trepidation, peeked outside my bedroom door.
I paused in the hallway. Not a sound.
I inverted the guitar into batting position, placed one finger on the phone's “send” button and made my way down the stairs.

The evil cats were stretched across the stairs, looking rather unruffled.
I couldn’t feel a draft coming from anywhere. I checked the doors and windows and felt secure in calling the all clear. No broken glass that I could see. The source of the crash remained a mystery.

Upon further reflection, had the guitar been a true Gibson SG I might have decided to just barricade myself in my room instead.

Postscript– the next morning I was relating the night’s adventures to Miss Lisa and she said the crash came from her room. A bamboo plant had been knocked over and the vase had shattered.*

(*And yeah, also in the interest of full disclosure – there is a good chance that the culprit was probably my heathen feline. )



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