You’ve see the signs in NYC and other major cities.  You’ve seen the warnings on tv and billboards:If you see something, say something. But no one ever thinks they’re going to need to abide by that mantra.  I never did, until last night.

I live in Boston.  My apartment is in a nice residential area that is about a 3 minute walk to the site of the marathon bombings.  Even thought I wasn’t living here at the time, to say that the bombings had a huge impact on me would be an understatement.  When it came time to move back to Boston, I knew that I wanted to move back to where I used to live, in the awesome residential area, close to Boylston street.  So I did.

My apartment is on the alley side of the building and I work at home on a table that faces the alley.  It’s nice because I can stalk, err people watch, all day.  I already know the comings and goings of the little old lady who drives the Mercedes and the cute family with the hot dad who drives a minivan.

Two weekend ago a friend of mine stayed over my house after my birthday celebrations.  As we were going to bed, she told me that she had seen someone climb up the fire escape with a flashlight.  By the time I got there, the person was inside and there was no activity going on.  We contemplated calling the police, but we were both drinking, weren’t familiar with the people in the neighborhood, and didn’t want to cause a ruckus over nothing.  But still, it bugged me.

The next morning, we noticed the screens were off the windows but nothing else seemed weird. All last week I sat at my desk working but saw nothing out of the blue…until last night.  Two teenagers wearing beanies and carrying skateboards quickly walked up the fire escape and into the apartment.   For lack of a better term, my neighborhood is fancy as shit, and something struck me as odd. Wearing beanie in 90 degree weather doesn’t make sense. I can barely afford to live here, let alone some kids with no fashion sense.  Something was amiss.

Feeling guilty for not calling two weekends ago, I called the non-emergency line. I had already pre-programmed it into my phone because I’m neurotic like that.  I told the dispatcher my story and she said she would send someone over.  10 minutes later, no one was there so I texted my cop friend from last week.

Either fearing for my safety or showing off, he asked for the address, dispatched 2 units, and told me to meet them out back. One squad cars was already there when I got outside and the officer was approaching the apartment.  I silently pointed to the apartment and he skulked up the fire escape as I hid behind a utility pole, as though that would protect me if shit went down.  Seconds later another squad car zoomed down the alley.  The officer jumped out of her car and drew her gun.  It was at this point that I regretted wearing a dress, as I was about to crap myself.

After an eternity a couple of minutes the police came back down the escape and told me everything was ok.  Apparently the occupants are music students from a local college, hence the terrible clothing choices.  Why they were using the fire escape then (or in the middle of the night last weekend) is unknown.

I felt like a doofus and was shaking like a leaf.  Thankfully my bowels had remained intact. The officers were nice and commended me on my blatant discrimination against hipsters in my neighborhood vigilance.  They said I did the right thing, and I know I did.  Something felt off to me, and I called the police.  I’m lucky that it turned out to be nothing, but you can never be too sure.  The Boston Police Department was great in responding to my concern, although now I owe my cop friend a drink.

Lesson learned: better to feel like a doofus and poop your pants over nothing than sit back when something horrible could happen.  If you see something, say something.