Memories come back with a tease.
Not just there. Out on my own for just a couple days, I was waiting to turn left at an intersection of two primary streets during a busy evening commute time (S/B Blackstone/Ashlan—if you must know).
When the left turn pocket light turned green, the car in front of me didn’t move. Dead. Being the new brave hero on patrol, I turned on my noisy chain-driven bubblegum overhead lights, alighted from my M.O.P. (Mobile Observation Platform, per Buck Savage) and since we didn’t have push bars, offered my recent academy enhanced strength to push the dead car across the intersection.
The beautiful damsel in distress was euphoric after I accomplished the task on my own. (I was certain I was quite dashing in her eyes too.) I received a very nice hug. While I finished my chat with her before returning to my patrol car flashing away by itself in the twilight, I rested my hands on my hips.
NO GUN!
Casually, yet panicky, I looked around and noticed it, passing headlights glinting off of it—dead center of the intersection.
Dodging traffic like a video game character before some poor driver ran over it, I scooped it up and retreated to my patrol car. I tossed it on the bench seat and took off.
Now instead of being filled with pride of a job well done, the beat up almost due to be retired brown Pontiac LeMans patrol car with two white doors with peeling Sheriff stars was filled with embarrassment. I scooted away and stopped on a side road a number of blocks away, and was relieved to discover no significant damage to the gun.
I didn’t drive through that intersection again for weeks. I didn’t want to be recognized. Forty years later, I still think of it when I drive through it. 😂
