There are times when only a certain word will do. It's usually an expletive. Here are three examples.
Portnoy the painter, although big and burly, was the victim of spouse abuse. And from a wife who was as petite as Minnie Mouse. She did, however, have a broom and a swing like DiMaggio. She also knew the sweet spot on the broom--where the straws all come together tight and hard at the handle. If Portnoy got too drunk the beating would begin. And the neighbors, hearing Portnoy's screams, would call us.
When you answered these calls, you had to feel sorry for Portnoy. He'd be lumped up, where the sweet spot had connected, and humiliated by having been thrashed again by the tiny Tyson. He'd never consider filing a complaint against his wife--he loved her dearly--so we'd take him to shelter. In his case a fishing shack he owned off Kelly Road. (Since we got snooty, this is now Bayshore Drive)
Driving down 41, Portnoy was in the passenger's seat. There weren't any cages then, so you put someone you needed to watch in the front seat with you and kept one eye on him and one on the road. To my horror, as we approached The Anchor bar, Portnoy muttered Gotta have one more, opened the door and stepped out. While we were going about 45 MPH. In the rear view mirror I could see him doing a series of backflips, like a gymnast doing a floor exercise, culminating in a double high loop that ended with him splattered face down on the asphalt. I decided to mail my badge in to avoid the Chief's rage, but did go back to try to keep the traffic off his corpse.
Waste of time. Portnoy, the benefactor of that magical cloak of protection that shrouds drunks, picked himself up, brushed himself off, and said the word: DAMN!
Then there's Hot Roddy and his Dodge Challenger. Roddy's beast had a 440 with a 6 Pack that could outrun anything we had. This night he'd picked up a caravan of NPD and CCSO cars, that were fading fast as he raced up 41. But, just South of Bonita, he lost control, crossed the highway and smashed into a power pole, ripping the car in half behind the front seat. We expected to see a gory mess. Not so. Again the drunkard's patron Saint had wrapped her arms around her sodden child.
Still sitting in the driver's seat, his hands on the wheel, he looked at his disected vehicle, then us and said: DAMN!
Trivia alert. I was so impressed by the power of this engine I later bought it from the junkyard and installed it in my racing buggy, Super Fuzz.
Now for the grand finale. Mary Jane Hemp was stoned on her favorite herb when she lost control of her Datsun convertible, crossed the divided highway, the drove under the trailer of a long-haul rig going the other way. When we arrived, we could see parts of the windshield and steering wheel which had been sliced off by the trailer. With trepidation, we looked for the driver's head. The car had traveled another 200 yards and was bogged down in the underbrush beside the highway. We approached, again dreading what we'd probably find.
Nope. Mary Jane stumbled out of squashed chariot, tried to focus her eyes on us, and said one word: DAMN!
The drunkard's Saint also watches out for druggies. Mary Jane'd nodded off on the highway, fallen over in the seat, and was below the windshield level when her car went under the trailer.
Having witnessed all these strange events I can close with only one word: Need I say it?
Portnoy the painter, although big and burly, was the victim of spouse abuse. And from a wife who was as petite as Minnie Mouse. She did, however, have a broom and a swing like DiMaggio. She also knew the sweet spot on the broom--where the straws all come together tight and hard at the handle. If Portnoy got too drunk the beating would begin. And the neighbors, hearing Portnoy's screams, would call us.
When you answered these calls, you had to feel sorry for Portnoy. He'd be lumped up, where the sweet spot had connected, and humiliated by having been thrashed again by the tiny Tyson. He'd never consider filing a complaint against his wife--he loved her dearly--so we'd take him to shelter. In his case a fishing shack he owned off Kelly Road. (Since we got snooty, this is now Bayshore Drive)
Driving down 41, Portnoy was in the passenger's seat. There weren't any cages then, so you put someone you needed to watch in the front seat with you and kept one eye on him and one on the road. To my horror, as we approached The Anchor bar, Portnoy muttered Gotta have one more, opened the door and stepped out. While we were going about 45 MPH. In the rear view mirror I could see him doing a series of backflips, like a gymnast doing a floor exercise, culminating in a double high loop that ended with him splattered face down on the asphalt. I decided to mail my badge in to avoid the Chief's rage, but did go back to try to keep the traffic off his corpse.
Waste of time. Portnoy, the benefactor of that magical cloak of protection that shrouds drunks, picked himself up, brushed himself off, and said the word: DAMN!
Then there's Hot Roddy and his Dodge Challenger. Roddy's beast had a 440 with a 6 Pack that could outrun anything we had. This night he'd picked up a caravan of NPD and CCSO cars, that were fading fast as he raced up 41. But, just South of Bonita, he lost control, crossed the highway and smashed into a power pole, ripping the car in half behind the front seat. We expected to see a gory mess. Not so. Again the drunkard's patron Saint had wrapped her arms around her sodden child.
Still sitting in the driver's seat, his hands on the wheel, he looked at his disected vehicle, then us and said: DAMN!
Trivia alert. I was so impressed by the power of this engine I later bought it from the junkyard and installed it in my racing buggy, Super Fuzz.
Now for the grand finale. Mary Jane Hemp was stoned on her favorite herb when she lost control of her Datsun convertible, crossed the divided highway, the drove under the trailer of a long-haul rig going the other way. When we arrived, we could see parts of the windshield and steering wheel which had been sliced off by the trailer. With trepidation, we looked for the driver's head. The car had traveled another 200 yards and was bogged down in the underbrush beside the highway. We approached, again dreading what we'd probably find.
Nope. Mary Jane stumbled out of squashed chariot, tried to focus her eyes on us, and said one word: DAMN!
The drunkard's Saint also watches out for druggies. Mary Jane'd nodded off on the highway, fallen over in the seat, and was below the windshield level when her car went under the trailer.
Having witnessed all these strange events I can close with only one word: Need I say it?
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