It's getting close to the time we’ll be returning home to the good ‘ol Elephant’s Graveyard, so this will be my last road tale. The trip has caused me to remember how different policing in a different state can be. And how much the same.
I’ve mentioned the different folks and critters and laws to be contended with, but left out one of the most important differences: Geography. Terrain.
Bashful Beaver, in East Tennessee , is mountain and foothill country. Winding roads, steep banks and precipices are ubiquitous. And have to be respected.
Late one Saturday night I came upon skid marks disappearing over the road’s edge and down a steep bank. Investigating, I found a Ford Falcon bellied out in a field fifteen-feet below. The car was fairly smashed up but the driver, protected by the Angel of the Drunk and Stupid, bore not a scratch. “How ‘bout givin’ me a hand up,” he said.
The bank was muddy and slick where his car had slid down it. It wasn’t going to be any fun but that’s why I was making the big bucks. I grabbed a sapling’s branch for stability, took a couple of tenuous steps down the bank and held out my hand. My customer, tanked with liquid stupid, could barely walk. But he did have enough coordination to grab my hand in both of his and yank with all his might. I, of course, came skidding down the bank, now muddier and nastier looking than the crash victim. I tried to get back up the bank but it was slicker than Ol’ Willie, so try as I might, there I remained.
After seeing the wrecked car, I’d tried to call in dispatch and tell them what I had, but dispatch hadn’t answered—probably taking a refreshing nap--and the only other car on duty was out at an all-night burger joint. “May be a long night,” I said to my soused companion.”
Finally, a good soul saw my empty car, stopped to see what was up, and called the fire department. The car required a wrecker, the drunk and I a long tug rope. I remember I had on a new pair of cowboy boots and it took a month to get all the mud off them.
Another time, I was on a back road at night and saw a Lincoln half off the road, balancing precariously and teetering on the edge over a healthy precipice. I called for help. At the car, I was greeted by a drunk. “Get me the hell outta here,” he yelled trying to open the door. With each of his jerky movements, the Lincoln swayed up and down. I jumped on the rear bumper to try to counter-balance the thing, while yelling at the drunk to keep still. He wouldn’t and I was sure that any second, car, drunk and I would crash to the bottom.
Finally, help arrived in the form of a wrecker who put his hook around the rear axel and tightened up, stabilizing the Lincoln . I stepped onto the road's welcome, firm surface and said to the drunk, “Now just stay there until we pull the car back.”
“I ain’t waitin’ a damn minute longer,” he said, rolling down the window, crawling through, and falling a hundred feet or so through tree limbs, brush, and rocky outcroppings.
When the emergency folks finally got to him he was a scruffed up mess. Up not nearly as much as he deserved.
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