Bill and I were kicking back with wine and beer and chips after our day-trip to Alcatraz. He was channel surfing. I was reading Janet Malcolm on Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. A rap came to the door, then more raps: Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!
Heavy. Loud. Authoritative. Not to be ignored.
I opened the door to two handsome, enormous San Francisco police officers, looking even more bulky in their bullet-proof vests. One held out a copy of our room key. Had we lost this? Had our room been broken into?
I got our actual key out of it's place in the drawer by the bed and showed it to them. We were fine. The officer thanked us and told us that they probably wouldn't have to speak to us again and asked where we were from. Canada. He had nothing to say to that. He wished us a pleasant evening and I closed the door.
Bill and I wondered what had brought them up to our room on such a flimsy pretext. Surely they had cleared up any possible problem with the desk staff. They must have insisted on coming up themselves. We amused ourselves with fantasies of how they just wanted to have a look at us and wondering whether we should have invited them in.