My Best Shot

I was kneeling down to angle my drill into the bottom of a utility pole in Cleveland, Ohio, when I heard a deeply Russian and very disgruntled, “Chey! Vat you’re doing to my property?!” (It wasn’t private property). I looked up into the aggressive eyes of a babushka lady standing over me.

I jumped up, straightening my reflective vest. “Oh, I’m a third-party contractor, just doing some work on the utility poles, ma’am,” I replied airily, trying to gloss over inconvenient explanations. “No vay,” she growled suspiciously, “you chave Illinois license plates. Zere is no vay you are chired by Cleveland Public Power. You are trespassing, zat is vat you are doing!”

As I was debating exactly what to say next, she continued, “And zat is vy I chave concealed carry, you know. In case of trespassers!”

Concealed carry? I was being threatened with gun violence? Oh my. I had never imagined my eiruv work being interrupted by the Russian Mafia. My mind began racing with plans for a very quick getaway. Maybe I could run down the block to the convenience store? Or jump into a dense clump of bushes? Nothing seemed likely to get me out of this front-lawn showdown.