Checkpoint Charlie
Tuesday night was fascinating...I’m sitting here on the couch (as usual) on the laptop; it’s about 1 a.m.
I hear the familiar sound of a revving car engine and just about cringe. These idiots drag race up and down this street with pretty good consistency, we all hate it. There’s this huge squeal of tires and then a “pop” or “bang,” which I thought was the car backfiring. There were more “pop-pop...pop-pop-pop...BANG!”
Oh, boy. I better go investigate THAT one. I set the laptop aside and jogged to the back door, flipped on the porch light and threw the curtains to one side. Car. Across the street. In the neighbor’s yard, nose-first into the telephone pole. Awesome.
There was a guy already out of the car, heading around to the front of it. I slid open the door and stepped onto the deck. “Are you guys alright?” I shouted.
“...I’mmmmm....fine,” comes the reply. “I havvta get my car outta here....can you guysh help me?”
Drunk. As. A. Skunk. Slurred speech, and panicked.
“Uh...yeah, let me see if I can get some help! Hang on!”
I stepped back inside, closed and locked the door, and made a beeline for the basement, grabbing the phone on my way past. I dialed and was halfway down the stairs.
“9-1-1.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, hitting the bottom of the stairs and banging the basement door open. “I’ve got what looks like a drunk driving accident across the street--Doug, there’s a car wreck across the street!--”
I jogged back up the stairs--fast.
“Ok, and where are you?”
“We’re at (crossroads) in (city).” (Pant, pant, pant! I am SO out of shape!)
“Is anyone injured?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, heading for the door again. “There’s a guy outside of the car running around trying to push it, but I don’t know if there are any passengers.”
A bewildered spouse comes jogging up the stairs. “What’s going on?”
“A guy hit the post out there, he’s trying to push the car out, go look.”
“Ma’am? Did you say he struck something?”
“Yeah it’s a....post....a....a” and my mind goes totally blank. Big tall thingy with wires. I’m looking out of the window right at the damned thing. I’m left standing there on the phone with 9-1-1, panting and wheezing like I’m in the middle of a heart attack without a clue of what to call that tall, wooden thing out there. “....hang on....”
“Calm down, ma’am, just take a deep breath.”
I’m not panicked, lady, just a fat, senile soccer mom!
“No, I’ve been running up and down the stairs to get my husband,” I said, stepping onto the deck again. “A...telephone pole! With the eletrical wires!” I trumpet with success. “He ran head-on into the telephone pole!”
I would swear the dispatcher stifled a giggle.
“OK, and is it upright?”
“Oh yeah, the pole is still upright, there are no downed wires or anything dangerous like that.”
“OK, and what kind of car is it?”
“Uh...oh man, I’m terrible with cars. It’s a sedan. Doug, do you know what kind of car that is?”
“It’s a black...” Doug squints at it. He starts to walk over to identify it.
“A black...um, sedan, he’s going to go check it out.”
“That’s fine, no problem. And no one is injured?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Black two-door Buick,” reports Doug, materializing beside me.
I repeat the information. The neighbor is livid, screaming. “...broke off my fuckin’ tree! What the fuck did you think was going to happen when you decided to drink and drive?!?” Other neighbors are out now, beginning to physically place themselves between the neighbor and the unlucky drunk kid who’s busy being apologetic. Drunk kid might get his head torn off.
“That’s fine,” says dispatch.
“....and now the neighbor is getting into a fight. Of course.”
“Are there any weapons involved?”
“Oh! No! Not at all, just screaming. He’s justifiably livid.”
“Ok, and what’s your name?”
She took my name and I volunteered my address.
About three minutes later a police cruiser pulled up. The kid (who looked to be anywhere from 17 to 20 years old) had been offering $500 to the neighbor to not call the police on him, saying that “he couldn’t go to jail.” The kid was NOT happy to see the officer show up.
“Is this your car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you coming from tonight?”
“A bar, sir.”
“You want to tell me what happened here?”
“Yes, sir. I...I was talking on my cellphone and I guess I got distracted.”
“Ok, you sit here on the curb, ok?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked shaky, even in the poor light. He sat, wrapping his arms around his knees.
The police officer looked at the homeowner, who also happens to be a volunteer firefighter with the city. “Hey, Jack!” says the officer, breaking into a familiar smile. “You having trouble again?”
The kid’s expression became absolutely pained, and he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his arms.
We were all milling around in the street, watching the proceedings and having an exceedingly better time than either the driver or the homeowner. A short time later an ambulance arrived, and then a fire truck. Jack’s yard catches hell at this intersection; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come outside on a Saturday or Sunday morning and seen fresh tire tracks cut across his front yard. They cut across our side yard, too, bumping up into the driveway and speeding through the grass, cutting back onto the street after they pass the 25mph speed limit sign. Jackasses.
Since the cop knows the homeowner well, we got the inside details of events. The kid had an outstanding warrant, and a prior DWI offense. They hauled him away in the ambulance, and we were informed he’s have his blood drawn and would be going to jail that evening. He had also been placed into an offender program meant to curb underage drunk drivers not so long ago, so my guess on age couldn’t have been that far off. He also informed the cop that he lived in a trailer park a couple of miles away. Turns out that this road is a major cut-through for the drunks who want to get home while avoiding the checkpoint on the highway.
Can’t tell you how safe that makes us feel.
I hear the familiar sound of a revving car engine and just about cringe. These idiots drag race up and down this street with pretty good consistency, we all hate it. There’s this huge squeal of tires and then a “pop” or “bang,” which I thought was the car backfiring. There were more “pop-pop...pop-pop-pop...BANG!”
Oh, boy. I better go investigate THAT one. I set the laptop aside and jogged to the back door, flipped on the porch light and threw the curtains to one side. Car. Across the street. In the neighbor’s yard, nose-first into the telephone pole. Awesome.
There was a guy already out of the car, heading around to the front of it. I slid open the door and stepped onto the deck. “Are you guys alright?” I shouted.
“...I’mmmmm....fine,” comes the reply. “I havvta get my car outta here....can you guysh help me?”
Drunk. As. A. Skunk. Slurred speech, and panicked.
“Uh...yeah, let me see if I can get some help! Hang on!”
I stepped back inside, closed and locked the door, and made a beeline for the basement, grabbing the phone on my way past. I dialed and was halfway down the stairs.
“9-1-1.”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, hitting the bottom of the stairs and banging the basement door open. “I’ve got what looks like a drunk driving accident across the street--Doug, there’s a car wreck across the street!--”
I jogged back up the stairs--fast.
“Ok, and where are you?”
“We’re at (crossroads) in (city).” (Pant, pant, pant! I am SO out of shape!)
“Is anyone injured?”
“I don’t think so,” I say, heading for the door again. “There’s a guy outside of the car running around trying to push it, but I don’t know if there are any passengers.”
A bewildered spouse comes jogging up the stairs. “What’s going on?”
“A guy hit the post out there, he’s trying to push the car out, go look.”
“Ma’am? Did you say he struck something?”
“Yeah it’s a....post....a....a” and my mind goes totally blank. Big tall thingy with wires. I’m looking out of the window right at the damned thing. I’m left standing there on the phone with 9-1-1, panting and wheezing like I’m in the middle of a heart attack without a clue of what to call that tall, wooden thing out there. “....hang on....”
“Calm down, ma’am, just take a deep breath.”
I’m not panicked, lady, just a fat, senile soccer mom!
“No, I’ve been running up and down the stairs to get my husband,” I said, stepping onto the deck again. “A...telephone pole! With the eletrical wires!” I trumpet with success. “He ran head-on into the telephone pole!”
I would swear the dispatcher stifled a giggle.
“OK, and is it upright?”
“Oh yeah, the pole is still upright, there are no downed wires or anything dangerous like that.”
“OK, and what kind of car is it?”
“Uh...oh man, I’m terrible with cars. It’s a sedan. Doug, do you know what kind of car that is?”
“It’s a black...” Doug squints at it. He starts to walk over to identify it.
“A black...um, sedan, he’s going to go check it out.”
“That’s fine, no problem. And no one is injured?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Black two-door Buick,” reports Doug, materializing beside me.
I repeat the information. The neighbor is livid, screaming. “...broke off my fuckin’ tree! What the fuck did you think was going to happen when you decided to drink and drive?!?” Other neighbors are out now, beginning to physically place themselves between the neighbor and the unlucky drunk kid who’s busy being apologetic. Drunk kid might get his head torn off.
“That’s fine,” says dispatch.
“....and now the neighbor is getting into a fight. Of course.”
“Are there any weapons involved?”
“Oh! No! Not at all, just screaming. He’s justifiably livid.”
“Ok, and what’s your name?”
She took my name and I volunteered my address.
About three minutes later a police cruiser pulled up. The kid (who looked to be anywhere from 17 to 20 years old) had been offering $500 to the neighbor to not call the police on him, saying that “he couldn’t go to jail.” The kid was NOT happy to see the officer show up.
“Is this your car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you coming from tonight?”
“A bar, sir.”
“You want to tell me what happened here?”
“Yes, sir. I...I was talking on my cellphone and I guess I got distracted.”
“Ok, you sit here on the curb, ok?”
“Yes, sir.” He looked shaky, even in the poor light. He sat, wrapping his arms around his knees.
The police officer looked at the homeowner, who also happens to be a volunteer firefighter with the city. “Hey, Jack!” says the officer, breaking into a familiar smile. “You having trouble again?”
The kid’s expression became absolutely pained, and he squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his arms.
We were all milling around in the street, watching the proceedings and having an exceedingly better time than either the driver or the homeowner. A short time later an ambulance arrived, and then a fire truck. Jack’s yard catches hell at this intersection; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come outside on a Saturday or Sunday morning and seen fresh tire tracks cut across his front yard. They cut across our side yard, too, bumping up into the driveway and speeding through the grass, cutting back onto the street after they pass the 25mph speed limit sign. Jackasses.
Since the cop knows the homeowner well, we got the inside details of events. The kid had an outstanding warrant, and a prior DWI offense. They hauled him away in the ambulance, and we were informed he’s have his blood drawn and would be going to jail that evening. He had also been placed into an offender program meant to curb underage drunk drivers not so long ago, so my guess on age couldn’t have been that far off. He also informed the cop that he lived in a trailer park a couple of miles away. Turns out that this road is a major cut-through for the drunks who want to get home while avoiding the checkpoint on the highway.
Can’t tell you how safe that makes us feel.
posted by Kelly at
1:52 AM
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