We all know it. It is unmistakable. It sounds like nothing else. And it is never a good thing. Things made of glass are meant to keep their form. Sometimes it can be inconsequential, even a joke. The discordant tinkling of a dropped tray of glasses in a restaurant is almost always followed by catcalls of, "Job opening!" Sometimes it is damned infuriating. And sometimes it doesn't sound like breaking glass at all.
Chuck and I were ending a rather hectic work day with a game of Neverputt, a completely addictive game of bizarre miniature golf, at my computer when a strange sound completely alien to the usual symphony of our neighborhood reached out and grabbed our attention, demanding to be noticed. It was low, yet sharp: the sound of the Jolly Green Giant stubbing his toe. Oddly familiar, and yet foreign. Chuck jumped up to investigate the noise. I lagged behind, dawdling while I tried to put my mental finger on where I had heard that sound before. Then I remembered, and I ran, too.
Before Chuck even got to the door, our doorbell was ringing frantically. That was the mechanic from next door. As I came outside, the street in front of our house was filled with our neighbors, indignantly yelling. A couple took off running down the street. Another couple went to flag down a policeman. I couldn't get out far enough to see what happened and everyone was talking far too fast for me to follow. I followed the general direction of the majority of the gesticulating, and finally saw the rear window of the truck, or, rather, the lack of rear window on the truck. Instead, there was glittering confetti strewn for 20 feet in every direction.
Finally, some of the loudest speakers slowed down, and with Chuck translating a bit (he is a way better listener than I), I got the gist of what happened. Some random guy walking by picked up a rock and threw it through our window for no apparent reason, and then took off. That was why a couple of our neighbors went running down the street; they were chasing him.
Their explanation was peppered with a bunch of those words that aren't commonly used in polite conversation, and they were using them with feeling. That actually made me feel tremendously better. My first, insecure thought had been that the window was smashed because we were American. But our neighbors were so extremely angry that it actually made me feel loved. Intermixed with the colorful, easy-to-identify words was also further explanation of the incident. The guy is a bit crazy, and he does drugs. He walks our street every day. No one knows what provoked him. Now that I had a bit of information, the shock was wearing off. I did the only thing I could do; I went inside and got a broom and dustpan.
While I was sweeping the street – can I just say that safety glass is extremely difficult to sweep, and an incredible amount of glass had just turned to dust – Chuck investigated the interior of the car. I had expected glass in the cargo area and perhaps the back seat, but shards of glass made it all the way to the windshield. There was also glass several feet in front of the truck. The amount of force behind that rock must have been incredible. My little bit of joy is that if he threw the rock with such force, the glass must have exploded right back at him. I hope he is bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts.
The police pulled up while I was sweeping, listened closely to my neighbors, and told me, "He's crazy," and then shrugged their shoulders in that uniquely Mexican philosophic expression to say, "What can you do?" They waved sympathetically and good naturedly and drove away. I honestly didn't expect much else.
This morning we are off to my favorite auto baño to get the interior of the truck de-glassified. The mechanic next door is checking on the price of a replacement window. Our truck is a very common make and model down here, so I am hoping it won't be too expensive. After all, I still have that electric bill to pay.