Gut Rumbles
 

March 31, 2007

About one year ago

Originally published June 1, 2002

I was required to attend a business dinner on a Wednesday night while my bloodless cunt of an ex-wife was out of town. That was just a few months before she became an ex, so she remained my darling at the time. Those were the salad days. But that's all another story, which I have spoken of a few times on this blog, and will continue to do until I get all the betrayal, heartbreak and perfidy straight in my head. I don't do things like that, and I don't understand people who do.

Here I go, digressing again...

Anyway, I was in charge of the care and feeding of my then-seven year-old son, so I dropped him off at Granny's house for tending while I went to hobnob with the bosses and spread my sparkling personality liberally around the room. The dinner was over at about 10:00, far past my son's bedtime, so I was not surprised when I found him sound asleep at Granny's when I came to retrieve him. I carried his limp, comatose body out to my truck and laid him out in the back seat. I carefully fastened a seat belt around him while he slept the deep, complete, unrelenting sleep that only seven year-olds seem to be able to muster. Then I started for home.

On Highway 30, far back in the woods of rural Georgia, I was stopped by a roadblock manned by the testosterone-crazed, gun-toting, IQ-impaired cowboys of the Port Wentworth Police Department. Ever vigilant and eager to apprehend desperados, they were engaged in one of those "scratch and sniff" exercises, hoping to find somebody guilty of something by stopping every motorist coming down the road that night.

The Supreme Court has ruled that such a blantant invasion of privacy is legal. I rule that it is downright un-American, but I don't wear a black robe, so my opinion doesn't count. I stopped and started digging for my wallet while rolling down my window.
I never actually saw the cop who approached my truck. I heard his footsteps on the pavement and the creak of the leather on his Sam Browne belt, but I never saw him because he shot me square in the eyes with phasers set on "kill" from a flashlight bright enough to light a high school football game on a moonless night.

"Driver's license and proof of insurance, please," he said, all the while beaming that flashlight right in my face. Totally blinded, I fumbled around in my wallet, finally managing to produce the necessary documents while wild spots of color danced in my vision every time I blinked. He examined my papers, seeming displeased that I was able to produce them, then handed them back. All the while, I was thinking, thank God I drank only one beer during the social hour and one glass of wine with dinner. If this guy smelled alcohol on me, I was a goner.

His flashlight beam darted into the back seat to illuminate my sleeping son. "Is that your kid?" he asked.

I don't want to discuss what a stupid question that was. I want to tell you what shot through my mind as all those colored lights danced before my still-blinking eyes. I started to say:

"HOLY SHIT! If I'da knowed there was a fucking KID in here, I never woulda stole THIS truck!"

"No, officer, he's not mine, but he's for sale. You want to buy him?"

"Yes, officer, he's mine now. I bought him fair and square from his Mama the crack addict, right behind the Port Wentworth Police Station, where you could have caught us both red-handed, committing an actual crime, if you were there instead of out here in the woods being a total prick."

"Hee, hee, hee. Wait until you read about the ransom I'm asking for."

"Kid? What kid? Officer, have you been drinking? Taking illegal drugs? Let me get MY flashlight and shine it in YOUR face. I want to check the pupils of your eyes."

But I didn't say any of that. I said, "That's my son and I need to get him home. He has school tomorrow."

The cop let me proceed, and turned his flashlight on the poor bastard behind me.

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