Another tale from the spring when Flo and I were first
dating.
Near dark, after having picked Flo up at her apartment, we
were heading west on 38th Street, to one of our hangouts, the Pizza
Inn, next door to where I worked. I was driving down the middle lane, when I saw
a flashing red light and heard a siren—a motorcycle cop was racing up behind
me. I flipped on my turn signal and eased into the right lane, as the cycle led
a line of posh cars and a limo or two west to the interstate, probably headed
for the airport. These sights are not uncommon here in the spring, as we get
close to the Indianapolis 500.
As the last car in the caravan raced by, I checked to see if
a chase cycle had taken up the rear, as is often the case,
but I saw nothing behind me, so I flipped on my turn signal so that I could
make my way over to the left lane, as my left turn was approaching. Just then,
more flashing lights—the chase cycle blew past me as he tried to catch up to
the caravan. As I remember, he gave me the evil eye as he passed, but I had not
encroached on his lane, and he was far behind the motorcade, desperate to catch
up.
I made my way over to the left lane, and my turn, and as I
pulled onto High School Road, there was the chase cop, angrily waving me over
to the side of the road.
He tore into me with a rage that would have been justified
had I endangered him, but I had not. Before he could finish reading me the riot
act, a familiar car pulled up from the opposite direction. My father approached the fellow cop, and flashed
his own badge. Explanations ensued, the motorcycle cop’s head dropped, and I
was spared his wrath.
I was both grateful and befuddled—how did my dad show up
here, with such perfect timing? He was home, watching television, when he
suddenly had a feeling that I was in danger. He grabbed his jacket, hopped in
his car and drove directly to the spot where I was.
The timing, though… he had rolled out of his driveway well
before the motorcycle cop had pulled me over, probably, even, before the cycle roared
past me on 38th Street.
How he did it, I don’t know, but my father had a knack for
that sort of thing, one that served him well both as a soldier and a police
officer. Made for a pretty cool dad, as well
