The SWAT Team Moved Swiftly and with precision to Carry Away my Housemate

When you are a starving art student attending college in a big city, the housing is questionable at best.

The second place I rented was better than the first. Mainly because of my roommate, who would eventually become a lifelong friend. The housing itself, however, was still filled with fringe personalities. We called ourselves the “Georgites,” because we all rented from the same landlord: George. He would rent to anyone willing to accept the accommodations he offered. Including a garage with no insulation, no bathroom, and no kitchen.

The property consisted of a converted house with three separate apartments, plus a two-story apartment building on the same large lot. My roommate, Jeff De Nero, and I rented a two-bedroom, one-bath unit. An aspiring country guitar musician lived in the north-side one-bedroom, which was actually a converted front porch. On the south side lived an ex champion body builder from the 1960s. Our other roommate was a ninety-year-old blind man named Dan, who loved to bet on horse races.

The apartment building itself was filled with a plethora of very unique individuals, including an old Nazi SS officer. But that’s a story for another time.

Mr. Universe (as we called him. But I think he was a Mr. Olympia winner), was a great guy. He was always nice, friendly, and approachable. We often wondered what he was doing in such surroundings, since he seemed so normal. Then again, we were there too, so who were we to judge?

I wish I could find the photograph I took of him standing next to his trophy and an old posing picture from his prime. Like many things from that era, it’s been lost to time.

The property was surrounded by a six-foot-high cinderblock wall, mostly covered in ivy, with two pathways leading to the homes. One on the north side and one on the east. There was also a driveway that allowed us to park inside the property, safely tucked away.

One day, as I was walking home from school, the air suddenly changed.  The sound came first. Two helicopters dropped out of the sky, low and aggressive, the rotors chopping the air so violently it felt like the street itself was vibrating.

 I looked toward the property and saw SWAT team members in full regalia, black machine guns in hand, slamming themselves against the cinderblock barrier that protected the place. No hesitation. No conversation. Pure, rehearsed force.  I decided the wisest thing to do was to stand back and watch the drama unfold.

Out of nowhere, a couple of police cruisers tore up the street and sped into the parking lot. Within seconds, they pulled out Mr. Universe.  Not escorting him. Not walking him. Carrying him.. This was a big man, easily over 200 pounds. Even years past his trophy days, he was still fit and imposing. Yet they carried him away like a child.  I was shocked, to say the least.

Then the helicopters lifted. The cruisers peeled away. The street fell silent again.

It wasn’t until later, after speaking with one of the other housemates, that I learned the truth. Mr. Universe had been on the run from the law. Years earlier, along Highway One, he had crashed his car and killed the son of a senator. He had disappeared shortly after and had been living under the radar ever since.  That explained a lot.

It was a shame, because he was a nice guy, at least to Jeff and me. Then again, he had killed someone.

I never found out what happened to him after that, or where his life ultimately led. I was too busy with school, trying to make a name for myself, to track him down or research the full story. Much of it has been lost to time.

But the memory of the SWAT team, and the speed and power with which they moved, has stayed with me ever since.

Don’t mess with the law.  They WILL catch you.