I tell you, I sensed a pattern long ago. And within that pattern is a distinct run of bad luck whenever I get around a cop. According to what they told us in grammar school: "Remember kids - The Policeman is Your Friend!" But for whatever reason, and speaking purely from my own experiences, C-O-P may as well be spelt T-R-O-U-B-L-E.
So, little recap: THE MAN (a/k/a: Storm Troopers) have raided the golf course and cuffed us together in pairs, and Stashley - our resident 40-something-year-old, self-proclaimed Bi-Polar, Paranoid Schizophrenic, is my assigned cuff-partner. * * * * * *
Me: "Oh, COME ON. Why do I get cuffed to HIM?"My copper answers, all friendly-like: "What? We saved him just for you, Marathon Millie."
Me: "Hey, that's clever. I like that."Cop: "Oh yeah? Who ast you? Just shut your mouth." Hmmm. Sweet guy.
Turns out there's only two of us females being busted out of the whole gang, me and one of the older chicks. I look over at her, ridiculously envious that she's cuffed to one of the cute, (not to mention sane) guys. All the rest of the girls have managed to avoid this debacle. I'll say one thing - that was some mammoth (and timely) group urination mosey!
THE MEN commence herding procedures to get us all back toward the hole in the fence, where the cop jalopies await. Meanwhile, the boom-box treats us all to some WHO. ("I don't mind…Other guys dancin' with mah guh-uh-uh-urll…") O, the irony….
Cop to one of the rookies: "AND TURN THAT GODDDAMN THING OFF…"I swing my head over to the radio and notice my sandals nearby… "Wait! Wait! At least lemme get my sandals!"
Cop: "Jeez…What? Where are they?"Me: "Right there by the radio….WAIT! So is my guitar!"
"You’re a real problem child, aren't ya Millie?" The copper smirks, kicks my Doctor Scholl Sandals over to me. (I guess I should be grateful…)I struggle to slip my sandals on, all the while tugging against Stashley who is quick becoming a quivering, ineffectual lump of abject terror.
Me: "Wait a minute, please…just wait a sec… I can't leave my guitar here, man!"Cop: "No? Yeah, you can."
I panic. The thing is like my kid. I commence to bellowing over to the pee-grove area:
Me: "HEY, ANNIE! LYNETTE! ONE OF YA! PLEASE TAKE CARE OF MY GUITAR!"
Cop (all excited): "Ahhhh! What's this? We got some more like you over there in the bushes, Millie?"Oh, shit. Me: "NO! NO! There's NOBODY OVER THERE!"
For some reason he doesn't believe me. He signals over to the same rookie, who along with a second MAN commence to hoof it over to the pee-grove with their flashlights. I hold my breath, watching the beams and the spooky shadows in the trees, silently begging for forgiveness from the other girls who - thankfully - the cops don't find. They have evacuated these bushes for greener, more distant pastures. Smart move. They'll give me cheerful hell for nearly busting them later, but they're good gals and they do end up taking care of my guitar until I am released from prison. Which… as I was saying…Stashley starts blowing a gasket almost immediately after we're cuffed together. First of all, he's not very coordinated to begin with and this handcuff thing has him thrown for a real loop. Plus, my skin is crawling just being his cuff-mate, (shudder) so I'm trying my best not to make any actual CONTACT with him as we negotiate the slippery golf course hills as an aberrant and discombobulated two-headed creature.
Stash (Under his breath but gradually increasing in volume): "Shit… shit… shit… shit… shit… shit … shit…" Each shit gets crazier-sounding and there's spittle coming out the corners of his mouth.Me: "Stash, dude - you gotta try to hold it together, for god's sake. "
Stash: "THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING…HOLY MOTHER OF…FUCKING HELL….THIS CAN'T BE…YAAAAAGGGGHHHHHH……!"Me: "Dammit, Stash - WATCH OUT! FUCK!"
Stashley slips, stumbles, almost regains his footing but then - whoaaaa - forget it, he's goin' DOWN…tumbling down a slippery slope. And who's cuffed to him again?I absolutely refuse to tumble as one with this guy. Against all odds, I never go down - instead galloping NEXT to the floundering Stashley, keeping up in convulsively synchronistic tandem with the progress of his collapse, wrenching my cuffed wrist and shoulder socket horribly. But as GOD IS MY WITNESS - I AM NOT GOIN' DOWN LIKE THAT, MAN. Dignity at all costs, or whatever is left of it!
Stash winds up in a sorry heap at the bottom of a muddy drop, and I end up down on one knee beside him. Me: "Get up, man. You are breaking my fucking arm, Stashley."
I am reminded of a terrible circus act I once witnessed: A young woman trying to cajole a tired, defeated bear into getting up into a standing position. The bear wants no part of it, but ultimately lumbers dejectedly to his hind legs.Somehow we make it thru the hole in the golf course fence and we are all piled into squad cars.
And then, lights flashing and sirens blaring, with full MAN-style fanfare and all the trimmings - it's on to the 102nd Precinct over in Richmond Hill with the whole motley crew of us…TO BE CONTINUED…
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