About the only person who understands a cop’s sense of humor is another cop. We find humor in things that make normal people throw up. Actually, it is a coping mechanism. If we lived emotionally on the same level as our work, we would never get off the psychiatrist’s couch. Instead, we find humor in unusual things; however, once in a while something is just plain funny. Those who follow my blog know I do not write humor well, so this is just what happened. I thought that with the approach of Easter, this might brighten things.
THE EASTER FROCK
by Mike Patrick
It was early spring, a few days before Easter, around 2 a.m. on cold, rainy midnight watch. I received a call for an auto accident. My sergeant beat me to the scene. His had stopped on the shoulder of the road, trained the police car’s spot light down a embankment on the approach to a bridge, and seated himself on hood of his car. No other car was in view.
The rain had stopped and I parked behind him and walked up. From where he was, I could see his spotlight and a streetlight were illuminating the outer edge of the bridge approach. Recent rains had been washing it out to the point that the sidewalk was in danger of sliding down the hill. Several recent truckloads of dirt had been dumped down the embankment to help support it.
There was a set of car tracks going across the sidewalk. The tracks ended when the car left the sidewalk and went airborne about twenty yards before landing in a patch of weeds in the bottom about 20 feet lower than the road. It had just cleared a narrow, water-filled ditch before sliding to a stop in a patch of weeds. The window of the driver’s door was open and the driver’s bald head was hanging partially out of the window. Steam was wafting up from the top of his head.
A woman’s screams were coming from the car. I started forward to see what I could do; but my sergeant grabbed my arm and stopped me. “Listen,” he said.
The screams were not of pain. They were a continuous stream of profanity. As we watched, the passenger door creaked open, and a rather rotund woman got out.
The sergeant started laughing and said, “Look. She’s wearing her Easter frock.”
She was wearing a black, skintight miniskirt, had a pink feather boa around her neck (the only feather boa I have ever seen other than in a movie or a play) and six-inch black stiletto heels. The miniskirt was rather more revealing than a lady with her girth should wear, but hey, we weren’t the fashion police.
She flounced around the car with her heels sinking flush into the ground with every step. Once she reached the driver’s door, she slapped the man on the top of his bald head. Not for a second did the profanity stop.
After giving him his smack, she turned around and leaped across the ditch with amazing agility for a woman of her size. Then she started up that embankment. Within two steps, both of her shoes were lost as she sunk down below her ankles in the fresh-fill mud. While trying to pull free, she fell forward, doing a full face-plant. She raised her face, scraped the mud out of her eyes and proceeded up that hill like a marine crawling on his belly across Normandy Beach, dragging herself forward with her elbows. For every three feet she climbed, she would slide back two; all the while cussing and dragging that feather boa along behind her. It reminded me of a scene from the John Wayne movie, McLintock, with all the people sliding around on a mud hill.
The man, dressed in a black suit, a white shirt and a dark blue tie, exited the car and staggered around the weeds in a drunken daze. He paused for a moment next to the little ditch, did a perfect pirouette and fell backward full length into it. The ditch was only a couple of inches wider than his shoulders, but it was deep enough for him to submerge completely. Water, looking like a Disney World fountain, squirted up about five feet high all the way around him. He came up spluttering and crawled out on the same side where he started. Only then did he see his lady friend snaking her way up the mud hill. He stared at her a few seconds, shook his head trying to clear it, and stepped toward her—right into the ditch, falling across it and landing face first into the weeds. He didn’t even try to get up again, he just crawled to the hill and began following the rut she’d made. Immediately, he adopted her marine-on-the-beach mode of locomotion.
By this time, the sergeant and I were holding on to the car in convulsions. The lady reached the sidewalk and levered herself onto it. Her feather boa looked like a mud rope. When she turned toward us, coated with mud from her hairline to the soles of her feet, she looked all the world like a glazed ham with chubby legs.
Her boyfriend stopped about halfway up, removed his tie and tossed it behind him. It struck the side of the car with a muddy plop and stuck. He finally made it to the top and joined his lady fair. Side by side they walked across the bridge, dripping a trail of mud, and her still cussing him. They turned toward an apartment complex on the far side and walked out of sight. We were still laughing so hard we could not have stopped them if we wanted to.
It took about ten minutes to regain our composure. Then we got into our cars and left. People wonder why I loved being a cop.