Any momentum I had going to work today was dissipated when a gigantic minivan and a police car — with flashers on — blocked my passage out of the parking lot. I arrived during that stage in the ticketing process when the policeman goes back in his car to nap for several hours with the impugned driver's license and registration in his pocket.
As there was no apparent transaction in progress between the drivers of the two cars in my way, each of whom seemed to be in his own world, I had no idea what was going on and how long it would take before my path would clear. So I decided to take charge. I pulled the car out and crept up toward the curb until my front bumper was almost flush against the police car. The hope here was to make eye contact with the cop and thereby clue him in to my predicament. No dice. The only eye contact he was making was with the inside of his lids.
I thought about honking for his attention — with no one behind him, he was in a position to back up the cruiser and facilitate my escape — but ultimately decided against it. I am, after all, a Midwesterner, and it is my policy not to honk my horn unless (1) I am having a stroke, or (2) the Indians have just won the World Series (here's hoping (2) happens first, by the way). So instead I went up and rapped politely at his side window, rousing him from deep mid-morning slumber.
I would give a physical description of this policeman for you, except that his looks weren't memorable. So just assume he looked like a young
Brian Dennehy.
Cop, rubbing his eyes: "Where am I . . . hey! What do
you want?"
Phutatorius, gesturing: "I'm stuck in the lot."
Phasing completely into tough-guy character, the cop shot back, "Yeah? Well you can wait a minute." I went back to my car, and the policeman slumped back down into sleep. A meter maid wandered into the lot and gave me a cross-eyed look. Unable to associate my trapped car with any of the expired meters, she shrugged and left, disappointed.
Days, weeks passed. The bulbs in the flashers on top of the cruiser burned out twice, and police administrators came over and changed them. A glacier advanced to within fourteen feet of
Bishop Allen and Prospect, then receded. The Indians advanced to the seventh game of the 2008 World Series and lost in the ninth, just as I was bringing a joyful hand to my car horn.
Then, finally, the cop kicked out of the squad car and delivered a written-out ticket to the decomposed body in the driver's seat of the minivan, which was now, inexplicably, covered in barnacles. From there, he mosied/ambled/strode back to his cruiser, lazily pulled into the road, and drove over to his retirement luncheon to collect his gold watch.
And now I'm here at work, with all my personal days exhausted, wondering to myself:
where are all those hippies at Amnesty International when you really need 'em?
FREE PHUTATORIUS.
