Cop Out

CAPTION: "Oh what a tangled web we weave....."

 

Police Officers can be nice. We who drive in the Middle Lane  call upon them a lot. But there are two times in our daily agendas where cops are not terribly appreciated. One you can guess right away. You know, when you've comitted a crime?

The other? Well thanks for joining me for the next chapter of....

 

                  THE CARBURETOR DID IT

                              Part      6

The cop riding shotgun jumps out first. He has the eager look on his face that says, “I’m getting to the bottom of this situation right now!" Rookie!

 

The other cop gets out from behind the wheel very slowly. He clearly knows a quasi-crisis when he confronts it.  But there is another reason this particular cop is in no hurry to diffuse this non-criminal behavior.  He is an old friend. We'd actually worked together in a past life.

 

He is doing everything he can to squash his smirk.

 

We exchange pleasantries. Then he gets on the horn and calls for a tow truck. I'd like to think he didn't want to sit around and watch my pain. A man stripped of his testosterone can be  an ugly sight.

 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“We’ve gotta run. There’s a B and E (breaking and entering) on Colfax. Let’s get together one of these days and catch up.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. Thanks for droppng by.”

"No problem."

 

Yeah, and wipe the smile off your face.

 

The cavalry retreats, and soon the chagrined mechanical trinity are shuffling feet like they’d like to be cleared from the scene as well.

 

“Why don’t you guys go ahead and get out of here. I’m okay. And thanks for your effort. Oh, and thanks for listening.”

 

“No problem. God bless you.!”

 

With that they once again become shadows in the bushes.

 

I sit alone with my imagination now, waiting for the tow truck. I see myself sitting at an oasis in the middle of Arabia. My camel is taking a break.

 

Then hordes of camels arrive with their robed riders. The riders put all the camels in parking spots, and pick up drive-in theatre like speakers to listen to Imams dispense advice on choosing the right mechanic.

 

I am somewhat shaken back to reality by the flashing lights of the tow truck.

 

In between tobacco spits, this driver loads my dragon onto his flatbed.

 

Then we are off to MY MECHANIC'S shop with my new late night friend getting his life story in as we motor along.

 

As we drive along I find myself back at the oasis where veiled dancing girls are tightening down nuts and bolts on my car.

 

It’s just a few minutes before midnight when we reach the garage. I am surprised to see my paid expert still here working. My cynical notion is he is just up reading a “HOW TO” book. He quietly moves to the car, surveys it, and then?

 

“Got a problem?”

 

My fighting spirit is dead and gone. I mumble something about the timing chain, and he mumbles something about that being impossible. He mumbles something about checking with him in the morning, and I return the mumble.

 

I get a few hours sleep, switching my stream of consciousness roaming to a war zone. Great armies are charging each other armed with tie rods and pistons.

 

I wake with the alarm in a sweat.

 

After a cold shower, and a shave I stagger to the phone. I carefully dial the number of the shop and ask for MY MECHANIC. I am going to forcefully tell him I am sure it is a timing problem. Well he gets in the first shot.

 

“It’s really hard to believe, but I think you’ve jumped the timing chain.”

 

Is there a law against strangulation over the phone?

 

Well let me try and calm down and I’ll see if I can’t find a climax to this sordid tale. Be back tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion.