Criminal

I had been sitting in the back seat of the squad car for about 10 minutes before she came back, hoping to God no one had chosen to play a Christmas prank on me.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. I have been house-sitting in Burbank for my wonderful cousins and their three adorable little pets. However, with a few remaining church obligations before Christmas comes and goes, I had to make a brief commute up to Castaic. On the way back, I decided that I needed some gas, so I turned the corner to head towards the bright red & orange Pilot truck stop that usually shines so brightly in my patio view.

As I made the turn, I saw the two black-and-white units make U-turns. They were doing so illegally at that particular intersection (lawbreakers!) and so I knew this only meant one thing: They were after me.

Sure enough, I turned on my signal and moved into the turning lane to enter the gas station and saw the bright blue & reds. Being already in the turning lane, I pulled into the station, finding the first parking space to stop my car. The two units parked angled behind my vehicle in a V formation so as to prevent any notion I might have of a speedy reverse exit. Just in case I suddenly thought I was Bullitt.

OK, maybe I took the turn too sharply. Maybe it was a yellow light and I didn’t notice and they want to slow me down. It’s nothing, I’m sure.

She tapped the window, her much taller partner standing near the rear of my car but still on the driver’s side. I rolled my window down and smiled.

“Sir, when an officer pulls you over, just pull over to the right side of the road.” I thought, well, I would have but I was already in the turning lane. Thought it best not to share that observation and just find out what was going on because I didn’t really like her tone. It made me nervous. And her partner, also a woman, was really tall.

“Do you have your license?” “Yes, ma’am.” I produced the license and she barely glanced at it. “Sir, have you ever been arrested before?”

OK. Hadn’t heard that question before. This was suddenly not so casual. Not so benign. I’m the guy who once had a police officer try to falsify an accident report against me to make their friend who slammed into me look better. I’m the guy who once got a $110 ticket while riding a bicycle. I don’t have luck with cops. Never have. And this one was asking me if I had ever been arrested before.

“No ma’am.” One breath. “Step out of the car please.”

I complied, everything suddenly moving in slow-motion. She grabbed my arm, led me over to her vehicle and moved my hand behind my back. “Place your hands behind your back and interlock your fingers.” I did so, and heard the rattle of the cuffs. I don’t remember feeling them — just hearing them rattle. That was enough, I think.

“Sir, I’m going to search you now. Is there anything in your pockets that’s going to poke me?” “My keys are in there, but that’s all.” As she proceeded to empty my pockets and ask my questions about why I was headed to Burbank from Castaic at 10:30 at night, I kept thinking to myself — If I go to jail, I’ll never get to sleep tonight. And I hadn’t been to bed from the night before (which probably meant I looked a little cracked-out and that was not a point in my favor). What if I get tasered? I’m gonna look like a moron flopping around like a fish. I hope they don’t think my prescription I just filled at Rite Aid looks suspicious. It’s for my stomach, I swear!

“Sir, I’m going to have to search your car. May I do that?” Not a whole lot I can do about it right now is there? is what I really wanted to say, but when I spoke it just came out, “Sure.” I’m buckled over the hood of their car, sufficiently nervous about them having pat-searched me when I hadn’t showered — or gotten their phone numbers — hoping to the good God in Heaven nobody from the church drove by. That would be just my Lackey-luck.

“I’m going to need you to sit in my vehicle while I search your car.” What? I’d never been in the back seat of a cop car before. Wow. She took off my hat (terrible hat hair – can’t believe I worried about it at that moment, but I did) and cupped my scalp so I didn’t hit my head on the roof of her mobile prison.

I looked out at everything from the caged back seat. Those bucket seats in police vehicles are ridiculously uncomfortable. Like those awkwardly hooked chairs they have in most DMVs. Her partner was in the other vehicle, running my license while she, step by step, took my car apart.

Now, I don’t want to get too dramatic, but I was a bit . . . confused. I had no idea why I had been pulled over, let alone searched and pocketed in the back seat of the car. For those of you who frequent my blogs, you may have seen my most recent entry (the challenge to eradicate negative responses). If you didn’t see it, read it quickly (it’s way shorter than this) and you’ll understand the predicament I’m in at that moment.

I’m being arrested for charges unknown, and I can’t even complain about it.

That Simpsons episode came to mind where Ned Flanders gets pulled over for speeding and winds up bent over Chief Wiggum’s vehicle when the church bus drives by and everybody waves. Yeah. Isn’t THAT funny. It’s amazing how being caught automatically makes you think you’re guilty even when you’ve done nothing.

About eight or nine minutes after I had taken my new residence in her car, I saw the two officers look at each other and their expressions both changed. They tensed and began to squint at each other. This is it, I thought. I’m spending tonight in jail. Somebody tell my mother I love her.

The officer who originally spoke to me returned to her car and opened the door. “Everything’s fine, Ronald.” She cupped my head again (forehead this time), helped me out of the car – the cuffs rattled again (louder this time, it seems) – and they let me go.

“I’m going to give you a warning, Mr. Lackey.” Oh, so soon? We were just having fun. “Your front driver’s side head light is out. Get it fixed.” Point taken. Loud and clear.

I collected my things, some scattered on the hood of their car, some scattered in my seats. I didn’t get their names, ask any questions, or even say goodbye. I just wanted to be done with the situation so I could do that whole “look-back-and-laugh” thing. I don’t know why their expressions had changed before they let me go. Maybe I disappointed them by not being Al Capone Jr. My car was still running, so I waited for them to drive away and . . . well, I still needed gas. Hm. Almost forgot that.

Did I mention I don’t have the best luck when it comes to police officers? Still, I should probably go ahead and get that head light fixed.

Renaissance (A Lackey Fable)

There once was a man of great talent, who could accomplish almost anything he set his focus upon. He had become an extraordinary musician, painter, writer, and philosopher — a man skilled in both sciences and legalities. There was no shortage of people who would praise both his discipline and his skill. And many said to themselves, “What a special kind of man this is, to have gained so much knowledge and experience.”

But the man did not feel this way in his heart. For he said to himself, “There is no one who will speak with me for even a minute. No one who will walk with me for even a mile. Every friend I have ever known has said goodbye and I am not where they are. Those who are here are strange to me, as I am to them.”

He spent many nights with this thought in his head. And such thoughts are too big to allow very many others in. He had traveled the globe, but could find no comfort beyond the four walls of his humble home. It was after a number of months that he discovered he had dwelt too long on the problem at hand, and not on the questions that would lead him to the solution. “What is my purpose,” he asked. “Of what good am I?”

So he decided to ask this of the local acquaintances in the town. Many of them said many different things, all of which came to this: “How can you ask what good you have or to what end your life has served? You have written great poetry and painted breathtaking portraits. You have soothed aches with medicines and calmed hearts with song. You are a special man, indeed.”

But their flattery fell false to him, for it was all about his works and not about his character. If his deeds were good, this did not make him good.

So he traveled all over the lands to be with those whom he had once called friend. He traveled through east and west, north and south and sought out every great companion he had ever known, asking them to what good end his life had served. Many of them said many different things, all of which came to this: “How can you ask what good you have or to what end your life has served? We made many wonderful memories together. We have cried together and laughed together, fought together and overcome together. Through it all, we have survived and will continue to do so in the days to come. This — freindship and memory — is a special gift, indeed.”

But their comfort left his stomach aching, for they spoke of things that were no more. When good things are gone, what remains that is still good?

He journeyed back to his home; the questions were his only companions. And though many knew his name, he felt utterly lost and alone. He prayed and prayed for understanding, for direction, and most of all — for purpose. But there came no answer.

Soon he cursed himself for being weak and for being selfish. He rebuked himself for needing what would obviously never be given him. And within his heart, his other feelings built a wall around his sorrow so that no one else could see it.

It was in the midst of this dark time that he discovered a small spider-web hidden in the ceiling corner on his home. The web belonged to a deadly creature, who was extremely dangerous due to its small size and uncertain temperament. The man was about to destroy the net, when he noticed a small fly struggling to break free from the silk prison.

The image reminded him of his own dilemma — trapped in a web of questions and emotions that could easily devour him whole if he lingered with them for much longer. And he realized, “The spider intends to eat this helpless animal, so to the spider, the fly’s purpose is food. However, the fly struggles against its bindings, so to the fly, its purpose is to survive. And me, I cannot choose a side:

For if I destroy the web, I will not save the fly,
And if I leave it alone, I will watch him die.”

And with this revelation came yet another, (one that lingered with him for a long moment) — that what we intend and what is intended for us are not always the same thing.

Eventually, he turned away from the web and did not destroy it. He thought it better to not know if the fly escaped or if the spider’s hunger was satisfied. He suddenly thought it better to laugh at the existence of things than to fear their ending. He believed it greater to take action and to create and to encounter than to seek reasons for such things.

And he knew, for that moment at least, that life was bigger than meaning. That it was, instead, full of meaning — and if something only serves one purpose, than that thing is dead. To be alive is to be above meaning and to allow purposes to come to you in their own time.

With this, he smiled, for he was at last glad to have no idea what he would do next.

– The End

My Seven-Year-Old Niece Just Saved Your Life

Peyton dug up the earth with her broken twig, buried her lollipop stick in the ground (after it had sufficiently been licked bare, of course) and ran back to the swing, prideful in her work ethic. Landon, my nephew (now 13), then broke it down for me:

“Someday, when we’re all robots and the invding aliens come to destroy our center of gravity, they’ll find this spot. They’ll dig up that lollipop, thinking that it’s an ancient artifact from the mid 2000s. But there will STILL be residue on it from the sucker. They’ll taste it and their eyes will glow with joy! They’ll say, ‘Humans can’t be bad if they can create such delicious sticks that remain so tasty after thousands of years!’ and they’ll stop the invasions and let the robots go back to watching TV.”

And I thought, ” . . . BRILLIANT!” So me, my nephew, and my niece (who shall be hereafter called Her Honorable Benevolence) decided that instead of going inside to play American Idol (cause Peyton won last time anyway), we should gather up every lollipop in the house, lick it clean to the paper (but leave just a little bit for the aliens to find) and bury it for the good of all humanity — and robotdom.

Today’s lessons — swing as high as you can on the playground, so the clouds get jealous and rain somewhere else; American Idol is always more entertaining when the judges are all three your uncle; and littering should be occasionally encouraged for the greater good of mankind.

You didn’t know. Now you know.

Blood

WARNING — This blog post is NOT for the squeamish. Yes, I’m serious.

It was an uneventful evening. Downright boring, you could say. Just me and another manager, with a capable but underwhelming staff and not a ton of customers.

I was at the DVD counter, ringing up some guests with two of the associates, when someone walks slowly into the store (almost at a glide). This man comes and stands near the counter, saying nothing. Now, we all pretty much know that this person is there, but none of us really look at him because we’re all assisting other guests. Besides, he’s not bothering anybody.

About ten seconds later, our employee Jean Michel begins to say, “Oh my God, Reed! Reed! Oh my God, look!” And so, still suspecting nothing, I turn and look at the guest who is standing by our counter. And then I see what the fuss is all about. (Another fair warning — here comes the squeamish part) . . .

His face and arms are covered in blood.

There were slices all over his face and marks all over his arms where something had scraped off whole layers of the skin. When his mouth would open, he was missing a few teeth and his complexion was paler than normal (even though he was a black man). He was covered in his own blood, standing still by our counter, not saying a word or really moving at all.

Now you tell me that wouldn’t keep The Shining out of your DVD player for a while.

So here we are, all standing around not really having a clue what the crap to do! Mark, another employee, calmly looks at me and says, “I have to leave or I’ll pass out.” A few of the other guests took the same cue. Jean Michel didn’t miss a beat. “God, he’s bleeding to death over here! We have to call emergency. Something!”

I told him to dial 911 and after the next guest had finished their transaction, I walked over to speak with the man. Jean Michel got emergency on the line and tried to ask the man a few questions about how he got hurt and who he was. He barely responded to anything any of us said, which was a whole new kind of creepy.

But you know, I have to pause here and point out how silly some of the questions are that 911 asks when you call them. “What’s his height?” Come on, now! Are you trying to recognize him when the ambulance gets here? I’ll give you a hint — HE’S THE ONE COVERED IN BLOOD! Seriously, now, can you just send somebody? Please?!

Anyway, I had Jean Michel go get me some paper towels to try and stop some of the bleeding. I asked the man to leave the store with me and Rob was gracious enough to clean up the little trail that the man was leaving behind him as he walked out. (Look, if you think it’s gross reading — you should have been there. I tell you, it was something.)

When we got him the paper towels, he began to wipe himself off and I tried to speak with him. I asked how he got so cut up and he told me straight-eyed that he cut himself up. He said he hated himself and he was so depressed that he couldn’t think of anything else to do. When I tried to ask further, he wouldn’t speak. He stopped wiping the blood because he said it hurt too much. His arms were raw and several of the wounds looked pretty severe. So we just sat there. I tried miserably and futilely to think of something — anything — positive to say. But I was stunned, shocked, and utterly speechless.

To their credit, it was maybe only four or five minutes before the paramedics arrived and took care of the man, one of them staying just long enough to ask me a few questions. It’ll be a long time before I get that image out of my head. But what’s worse is the feeling that someone can get so low — that you can hate yourself that much — that you would destroy yourself in such a way. I don’t know why he came into our store (it didn’t seem to be for help but it sure as hell wasn’t to shop). But whatever he’s left with, I hope it’s better than what he came to us with. I hope he finds something to ease those wounds, cause the ones on his heart are bound to be worse than the ones on his body.

And as for all of us, let’s be grateful for a few things tomorrow, and the next day, and in the coming week. Be thankful for what you have instead of being loathesome of what you don’t. And remember as Bob Dylan once said, “To be kind to everybody cause you never know how hard their road is to walk down.”

And stay away from horror flicks for a while — watch some Simpsons or some Little House on the Prairie or something. . . . maybe Fraggle Rock . . . really anything else.