Inside the fence

Several months ago, I wrote about an unusual building that was next to the yoga studio where I teach meditation. When I take Noah, our golden retriever with me, I usually let him out after class and he walks in front of the adjacent building. A high fence surrounds the property, which is about two acres. The white building is two stories and takes up nearly half of the property, which includes a swimming pool.

There is no name on the building or gate, which is what initially caught my attention. Eventually, through some digging into property records, I discovered the name. But it was just a series of letters that gave away nothing about the nature of the business. A little more digging by this former investigative reporter and I discovered the folks behind the gate sell weapons and teach police departments how to interrogate suspects, among other endeavors.

Some time later, an interesting synchronicity occurred when one of Megan’s best friends got a job there. That’s when I found out even more. The company, she told me, has a weapons armory. So apparently they were shipping weapons out of the building to foreign countries or whoever bought their stuff. Good reason they keep the place secret, I thought.

In recent months, I haven’t paid much attention to the place. But the other day, after taking a yoga class, I let Noah out of the car. He walked over to the fence surrounding the white building, sniffed around, then suddenly charged along the fence. I gave chase and was startled to see the gate open and Noah racing inside the property, probably in pursuit of a squirrel.

I ran after him, breaching the entrance, and suddenly an alarm went off. It sounded like civil defense drill, that annoying guttural honking. Great, I thought. Now these interrogation experts were going to catch me and practice their techniques on me.

I shouted for Noah, and something about my voice caught his attention. It was the same voice I use when I think he might dart out in front of a car. He stopped his pursuit, and trotted back to me. I tugged on his collar and we both ran for the gate. I never saw anyone. Fortunately, it was January 2, a holiday, and there was only one car in the lot. I suspect that someone inside either spotted me, or reviewed a video tape and watched a bald-headed guy with a goatee chasing a retriever.

I dismissed the incident, didn’t think about it until that evening when I was on Facebook. I noticed a photo of Megan’s friend, R.L., the one who works at the facility, on the right side of the page. I hadn’t seen her in person for months and she looked a little different, her face thinner. So I clicked her picture, which led me into her Facebook page. At that moment, there was a knock on the door.

Abracadabra! It was her. Megan answered the door and I recognized R.L..’s voice. Perfect timing. Trish heard me laugh, and I explained the entire incident. Of course Trish wasn’t going to let that go. She walked across the house and brought R.L. back and asked me to repeat the story again.

R.L. thought it was a good synchro and wondered why the gate was open on the holiday. Then she gave me an update. “There aren’t any weapons there any more, just ammunition. They ship the weapons from a warehouse now.”

I wondered if that made me feel better. I was teaching meditation next to an ammunition dump, not a weapon’s armory.