Crime Scene Confidential: Me and Officer Johnson

August 12, 2006 9:39 AM (Archive)

Let me tell you of a terrible day I had last week. Maybe it’ll make me feel better. Maybe it will make you feel better. Sad but true, we love the miseries of others. Anyhow, let’s cut to the chase.

The day began miserably because first of all I had to go to work. Already a downer. Secondly, to get there I had to navigate a district that they’re chewing up for the new overpass. To make a long story short, I averted, slipped through, dodged, violated, or finessed - choose your own word - a barricaded section of the main avenue, which takes me to my office door.

I’m now in a restricted zone full of concrete chewers, dirt movers, bulldozers, and a bunch of high spirited construction guys. They seem to be friendly fellows. Because instead of working, they’re hollering at me. Why, I don’t know unless they’re maybe complimenting me on my spiffy ‘95 Lincoln. I’m enjoying all this until a truck that looks like something that would come in handy in Iraq mashes the front of my car. Oh dear, I’ll never get to work now because the driver insists on calling the police.

Boy, does he call the police - two cars-full show up, which leaves me wondering about the safety of the rest of Huntsville outside of our small battle zone. I mean if it takes four cops to handle a mashed hood, how many would we need for a burglary Oh, and I forgot to tell you that the construction company sent a “safety� expert, too

Even though the Officer’s motto “serve the people� was advertised on his police cruiser, he ignored it. His behavior was that of a man with a throbbing tootheache. He was not in a good mood. Understandable, more policemen are shot, clubbed, maimed in traffic violations that any other municipal altercations – even domestic kick, scratch and punch matches.

But the fun really started when I tried to explain to the officer - call him Officer Johnson - why I circumvented the barricade. He seemed to be a down-to-earth guy UNTIL I used an adjective for the barricade that began with a “D�. Yes, a big “D�. Officer Johnson noticeably tightened up. “DON�T CURSE AT ME!� he said.

I gulped. “No, no, I’m not cursing at you, officer,� I said. And then - my vocabulary limited by Officer Johnson’s sensibilities - I tried to explain why I - shall we say - finessed the barricade that only blocked my single lane. But I had definitely struck out with Officer Johnson. They have ears, but they hear not, as the Good Book tells us.

And to make matters worse, I asked this servant of the people the fine for being in this restricted zone. Big mistake. He said a hundred dollars and I said exactly what you just guessed; a crude 4-letter word preceded by “oh� - which came up from my belly, not my head. It was a Twilight Zone preview of a Mel Gibson rant. That did it. He somehow thought I was insulting HIM instead of the municipal code of traffic fines. ANOTHER misunderstanding. Another lecture. I listened with attention. I have great respect for those guys and girls in blue who often stand between us and civil chaos. I wouldn’t insult Officer Johnson for nothing. Just a bad day, like I say. Maybe for him, too.
By the way, to pick up the traffic report you have to go to our new million dollar jail; built at the demand of the Feds who worry more about the residential space and and comfort of cons than my tax bill. And they charge you ten bucks for the report too. Why’s that, I wonder. With careful and courteous language I asked the lady at the safety center who could be Officer Johnson’s mama. “Just a rule,� she said.

Wonder why they call it the Safety Center. It’s just a place where they take ten bucks from you. Not a good day.