It was cloudy that day, warmer than usual in Pasadena, Texas. By evening it was still in the upper eighties. Texans will tell you, it’s not just the heat; the humidity there can take lead from your step, and some say it's why, on November 14, 2008, two men lay dead from an otherwise straightforward 911 call.
A computer technician, a native son of the Lone Star State, Arlen Hunter was twice divorced and newly retired. His days were spent in the woods hunting deer, or fishing for crappie, catfish and bass.
That night in November, at 10:33, Arlen sat in his kitchen and stared at a box of Krispy Kreme donuts. He was trying to decide between chocolate and glazed. He went with the chocolate; life was too short. His second wife, Judy, was always at him about eating better. She yammered away, first with the donuts, then with the beer. Like a grown man can’t have a Bud now and then. She kept on and on and would not let it go; he cold cocked her once. Felt really bad for about fifteen minutes.
Man deserves a beer now and then. Or a donut. Or both. A man was entitled, his home was his castle. Wasn’t that in the Bible somewhere.
The world kept changing, the world kept turning. Left a man uncertain, unsteady. But Krispy Kreme donuts were always the same. Just like they were when he was a kid. Back then they had donuts at church every Sunday. You sat through the hour-long service to get them. Arlen smiled at the memory. He shook his head. He looked out the window and the world turned again.
A man. No, two. Two black guys. Might’ve been brown, hard to tell in the dark. Either way, probably broke out of prison. One guy had a TV, other guy had bags in his arms. They were coming out of...what the hell was their name...yellow house, white shutters. House on the left.
Rifle in hand, Arlen called 911. They pleaded with him. Sir don't go out there. Sir don’t go out there. Property ain’t worth gettin’ shot over, sir. Eleven times he was told to stay put. He cocked his rifle. Like hell, Arlen said.
Three shots were fired. Two men were dead. He still couldn’t think of whose house it was. Didn’t matter much, though. Sure as shit wasn’t theirs.
Arlen learned later the men were Colombian. Figures, he thought. Come here and take what we work hard to get. Pack it all up, like moving day. Moving, my ass. I’ll show you moving. Move and I’ll shoot, you sonsabitches.
He was never arrested. He did not go to jail. Arlen Hunter was never indicted. He did not know the names of the two men he shot, or the names of those for whom they were killed.
On the other hand, he knew damn well that he was in Texas, where a man has a right to protect his home. And his neighbor’s home and their neighbor’s home, and the homes of those he will never know. Come hell or high water, humidity or heat; man’s home is his castle. A man stands his ground. It’s there in the Bible. Should be, at least.
***
You can hear the 911 call that inspired this write-up at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bo_YKtVZiGE