"I can make up some shit if it makes you feel better."
Mistaken Identity
I know a guy who got a bloody nose so bad, he took
off his sock (a long white tube sock) and used the open end
to stuff in his nose to stop the bleeding. The weight of the
sock would not allow it to stay in his nose, so he hung the
toe end over his left ear. The cop that pulled him over let
him go with a warning because he felt sorry for him, not
because he had a bloody nose, but because he looked so
fucking stupid.
There is a reason why custody staff in the Department
of Corrections wear badges and look like cops. It is not
to screw with the public. The idea is that inmates might
respond better to authority fi gures, particularly law
enforcement. Years ago this might have been a good idea.
Today, however, most of the inmates I know have no respect
for law enforcement. Personally, I like not having to pick
out my clothes every day. Wearing the uniform to and from
work has created some interesting situations. I do know of
past co-workers who have been fi red for doing stupid shit
like waving their badge to get chicks to pull over. Never
have I intentionally lead anybody to believe I was an offi cer
of the law. Of course people see the blue shirt and badge
when they drive by me on the interstate. It didn't take long
for me to fi gure out why they slowed down as they passed.
Twice, I have had folks ask me to sign their fi x-it tickets as
I pumped gas into the Cavalier. I explain that I would love
to, but it would not do them any good.
"My department frowns on its employees impersonating
police offi cers."
The funniest incident occurred on Friday, October 1,
2004. As a third-shift temp, about 15 minutes ahead of
schedule on the way to work, time would allow me to stop
at the grocery store for a couple of snacks to add to my
lunchbox. A cereal sale display caught my attention. As
I was loading up my cart with the six boxes for $10 deal, a
teenage employee rapidly approached me. The thought of
rewards from the wife for discovering such a bargain were
quickly erased by his panicked needs.
"Offi cer, offi cer, there is a man in the parking lot
drinking a beer in his car, and he's got a kid with him!"
My hands came up to signal "Woah" right after the
mistaken identity clue, "I am a correctional offi cer; I work for
the Department of Corrections. I am not a police offi cer."
Before I could fi nish, two slightly older employees
rushed up to add details they thought I would need, "He is
drinking it right now! Do something! Somebody has to do
something!"
To break the ice, I said, "I could go out there, but if I
did, I would just ask him for one, and I should not show
up for work with alcohol on my breath." That got some
strange looks. "Look folks, the Department of Corrections
frowns on their people impersonating police offi cers. I am
a correctional offi cer. I do not arrest people. Let the guy
fi nish his beer, he is probably a paying customer."
At least now I know another parking lot to avoid. On
the way out to my car, I saw two squad cars with lights a
blazing. The whole incident made me glad I am not a cop.
I am certain they have better things to do, and bigger fi sh
to fry. If they responded to this event, they must have been
really bored.
Like many young folks in the department, I have a
buddy who recently left to be a cop in Seward. He tells me
most cops will not pull you over for less than plus-six miles
per hour. There is a box on the ticket for six-to-ten miles
over, but it is not used much if at all by most cops. If you
are speeding when you drive by them, they appreciate it if
you slow down. You do not need to show brake lights, they
will know. It would be an act of defi ance if you did not take
your foot off the accelerator. I pick my nose when they are
looking to distract them, hoping they will laugh or think that
they do not really want to hand me their pen.
"I was talking to this girl and Bruno showed up. Bruno
is the guy. Every time a girl says she is here with somebody,
it is Bruno."
Karma
Call it Karma like Earl, or call it "What comes around,
goes around." Every form of religion or belief system that I
know of has some form of equalization regarding the good
and bad things that happen to people. The universe just has
a way of evening things up. What more incentive do you
need to use honor and integrity in all that you do?
Two weeks after the fi rst Waverly card-playing event,
Count asked me to attend another with him. I thought to
myself, here is my chance. I will not get caught without my
cameras again. But now I am having a dilemma. Count
and I appear to be rekindling our friendship. That sounds
too queer. We are getting to be friends again. If it were not
for the money, would I accept the invitations? Am I posing
as a friend just so I can burn him? God, am I turning into
the worst kind of Marine, doing this to a brother Marine,
for money?
Count and I arrived at the Trackside, but the previous
hand-job bimbo was not in sight. No matter. Another
older, but thinner gal quickly took her place. Drinks were
purchased, and pleasantries exchanged. Something called
The Incredible Hulk was placed before me. It is made
from Hypnotic, which is blue in color, and Cognac (YAK),
which is brown. My elementary knowledge of primary
and secondary colors tells me that the mix should not make
green, but in this case it does. The mix also should not
make you feel like Ferrigno's character, but unfortunately,
it does as well.
I realized that I appeared to be poised like a cat ready to
strike, hanging on their every word, just to see if I thought
I could have the opportunity to collect video! Count had
me there to chase strange with him, and here I looked like a
student of the game, when I should be teaching Count how
to be discreet. Would it not be more fun to chase skirts with
him, instead of trying to hang him out to dry? I am not sure
this shit is all worth the trouble.
Not 10 minutes had passed, when Count as much as told
me that he was going to ride with this women to her home on
the north side of town, just a few minutes drive from the bar.
He told me I could wait here for him, and he would return,
or I could feel free to take off on my own and catch him at
work tomorrow. I would not play it safe anymore. It was
time to pull the goalie. My goodness, if he only knew I was
tracking him like a bloodhound.
I followed Count and the woman a few blocks behind.
I came to the corner just in time to see the tail lights dim.
I waited until both silhouettes entered the split-level home.
Damn it Heck, what the hell are you doing? Just drive on,
forget this shit. Leave Count alone to his own demise. I
drove around the block and stopped at the stop sign across
the street and catywhompus to the woman's driveway.
Looking up through my video, I could see the living room
lights where Count and his friend were undressed, doing
God knows what. Why am I acting disgusted? Count is
doing what I wish I was doing.
At that very moment, a pick-up pulled into the driveway,
and I could only imagine that it was the woman's spouse. I
began to fear for Count. Shit, he's about to get caught in the
act! Damn, you dumbshit, how could you be so careless.
Then I spotted the silhouette that had to be Count, running
from the backside of the house, through the backyard directly
toward the street in front of me. I practically tossed the
camera into the backseat, quickly started my vehicle and
sped down the road. Rolling down my window, I yelled at
Count, "Get in, you stupid fuckin' jarhead!"
He did not dare do a Bo Duke slide across the hood of
my Wrangler. It was too high in the air, and the hood latches
were bound to snag something. Just in case, I drove ahead
of him so he would run around the back. Count did not have
a stitch of clothing on. He jumped in my front passenger
seat, buck naked, taking inventory of the clothing he had in
his hands with a smile on his face, "What the fuck are you
doing here, Heck?"
I had no real answer. "I was just leaving town," I
nervously lied, "and I saw you running naked."
Thankfully Count was another great thinker who had
a reply prepared without listening to my answer, "Fucking
great Karma!"
"Yah," was all I could think to say. Karma my ass; who
are you now, Earl? I could only imagine what was running
down his crack into my vinyl buckets.