Spring Training, Williamsburg
Last night at four in the morning the door buzzer rings. Loudly. Twice. I answer, of course. The buzzes are of a conspicuously insistent nature.
"This is the police. Does a Marina live there who owns a green Toyota?"
Momentarily, in the odd four o'clock not-light bouncing just so off the silver call-box, the fact that my car is not green does not escape me, the fact that my car is a Toyota, however, does.
"Uh, what?"
"A Toyota. Green. Is Marina there? This is the police."
Suddenly the police part sinks in. Suddenly the Marina asking me what's going on from our bed part sinks in. It's a little bit like the time I fell off a cliff and banged my head, sliding to within a few feet of a (albeit unconscious) cold-water death, like I am coming-to. The flow of information is trickling in. The momentary amnesia is slowly parting the dirty red curtain.
"Oh, um yeah, ok, hold on, I'll be right down. "
A quick peak out the window. Yep, those are cops down there. Yep, that's definitely a Toyota.
A black Toyota.
The easiest thing is a t-shirt, dirty overalls and a turned-around baseball cap found hastily in a box underneath the hanging Hold Everything t-shirt cubbies. I don't think I've worn this baseball cap in fifteen years. Where did this baseball cap come from?
I open the door. He is chubby, hook nosed. Long Island accent. Thankfully (for a cop at four in the morning) impishly sarcastic eyes.
"Does Marina live here?"
"Yeah, she's my wife."
The cop's partner is out on the sidewalk, standing a few few feet between the patrol car and ours, oddly at the ready. The patrol car is parked, no, careened, at an odd angle in front of the Toyota, as if they had just apprehended the unmanned vehicle after a high speed chase. Its head-lights on double bright pointing right at me in the door-well, illuminating our conversation, illuminating my confusion.
"Is that your car?"
"Um, yeah."
"Are these your keys?"
He holds them up in his pudgy right hand above his shoulder, older brother just try and get em style. They dangle in the light. I see the blue carabiner, the silver key fob Curran brought home from Greece.
"Whoah, yeah, um, those are my keys."
"Well I don't know what you've been up to tonight," (makes the international Charades hand signal for imbibing) "and really, I don't care, but someone called up and said there were some keys sticking out of a trunk. We ran the plates and found out the car belongs to Marina and that she lives here."
"Oh, well, no we weren't drinking, we were getting someone's luggage. They were going to the airport."
I don't know why I say that. In instant retrospect, it makes no sense. What the hell am I talking about? The cop has no way of knowing that we had stored Bas and Gwen's bags back there for when the cab came to pick them up for their flight earlier in the day. I can't figure out whether it is bizarre or expected that the cop doesn't even miss a beat, doesn't question the nonsensically insufficient back-story.
"Well, here they are, do you want to check the car to make sure every thing's there?"
"Oh, uh, no, there isn't anything in that car."
"Yeah, heh heh. That car isn't worth more than the parts anyways."
He holds out the keys and I take them. I look at his fleshy palm and sincerely shake it.
"Well, thanks."
"Uh-huh."
The cockeyed half smile, the playfully twinkling eyes, never leave the cop's face as I close the door. He's really getting a kick out of the whole thing until the end. I on the other hand, have trouble getting back to sleep.
"This is the police. Does a Marina live there who owns a green Toyota?"
Momentarily, in the odd four o'clock not-light bouncing just so off the silver call-box, the fact that my car is not green does not escape me, the fact that my car is a Toyota, however, does.
"Uh, what?"
"A Toyota. Green. Is Marina there? This is the police."
Suddenly the police part sinks in. Suddenly the Marina asking me what's going on from our bed part sinks in. It's a little bit like the time I fell off a cliff and banged my head, sliding to within a few feet of a (albeit unconscious) cold-water death, like I am coming-to. The flow of information is trickling in. The momentary amnesia is slowly parting the dirty red curtain.
"Oh, um yeah, ok, hold on, I'll be right down. "
A quick peak out the window. Yep, those are cops down there. Yep, that's definitely a Toyota.
A black Toyota.
The easiest thing is a t-shirt, dirty overalls and a turned-around baseball cap found hastily in a box underneath the hanging Hold Everything t-shirt cubbies. I don't think I've worn this baseball cap in fifteen years. Where did this baseball cap come from?
I open the door. He is chubby, hook nosed. Long Island accent. Thankfully (for a cop at four in the morning) impishly sarcastic eyes.
"Does Marina live here?"
"Yeah, she's my wife."
The cop's partner is out on the sidewalk, standing a few few feet between the patrol car and ours, oddly at the ready. The patrol car is parked, no, careened, at an odd angle in front of the Toyota, as if they had just apprehended the unmanned vehicle after a high speed chase. Its head-lights on double bright pointing right at me in the door-well, illuminating our conversation, illuminating my confusion.
"Is that your car?"
"Um, yeah."
"Are these your keys?"
He holds them up in his pudgy right hand above his shoulder, older brother just try and get em style. They dangle in the light. I see the blue carabiner, the silver key fob Curran brought home from Greece.
"Whoah, yeah, um, those are my keys."
"Well I don't know what you've been up to tonight," (makes the international Charades hand signal for imbibing) "and really, I don't care, but someone called up and said there were some keys sticking out of a trunk. We ran the plates and found out the car belongs to Marina and that she lives here."
"Oh, well, no we weren't drinking, we were getting someone's luggage. They were going to the airport."
I don't know why I say that. In instant retrospect, it makes no sense. What the hell am I talking about? The cop has no way of knowing that we had stored Bas and Gwen's bags back there for when the cab came to pick them up for their flight earlier in the day. I can't figure out whether it is bizarre or expected that the cop doesn't even miss a beat, doesn't question the nonsensically insufficient back-story.
"Well, here they are, do you want to check the car to make sure every thing's there?"
"Oh, uh, no, there isn't anything in that car."
"Yeah, heh heh. That car isn't worth more than the parts anyways."
He holds out the keys and I take them. I look at his fleshy palm and sincerely shake it.
"Well, thanks."
"Uh-huh."
The cockeyed half smile, the playfully twinkling eyes, never leave the cop's face as I close the door. He's really getting a kick out of the whole thing until the end. I on the other hand, have trouble getting back to sleep.
6 comments:
great story. nice to hear a story where the cops serve the people with simple procedures like this. and nice to hear about the good samaritan who called the cops in the first place. all somewhat improbable.
Great ending of a perfect week :-)
Toddy, did I ever tell you the story about when my car got stolen, and I stole it back two days later?
We'll get into that, don't worry.
man, the keychain from greece was in that fat cops hook-nosed hands - that is awesome -
if that keychain could talk...
you should put a picture of those keys on the site - not because i think it would be artful but just because i completely forgot what they looked like - although i do remember returning with many small colorful bottles of Ouzo.
Post a Comment