MEAN MEDIAN

MEAN MEDIAN

“Have you been drinking?” asked the officer, politely I might add, when he stopped me on

Broad Ripple Avenue

in Indianapolis, after I had turned west from Keystone. I was on my way home from a WISH-TV remote shoot, my usual Sunday morning beat.

“Drinking?” I said with a bit more hubris than is generally advisable when addressing a law enforcement officer. “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

“When was the last time you had a drink?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s not a good sign, Sir.”

“That’s not what I mean. I think I had a beer three nights ago,” I stammered. Stammering, by the way, is not recommended during a situation like this.

The officer then explained that when I made my turn I “nicked the median with my front tire,” and that in his experience as a police officer, “this usually means the person has had a few too many.”

“Officer, this is silly. I’m not drunk. I’m just a lousy driver.” As you can see, I was having trouble saying precisely what I wanted to say. Another bad sign, by the way.

The officer went back to his car with my registration.  A few minutes later he retuned to my vehicle.  “May I ask if you have ever been arrested?”

“Arrested? Look, I know you’re doing your job, officer, but other than three days overdue at Blockbuster, I’ve never been in trouble in my life.”

“Sir, I am going to let you go, but based on your careless turn, I could give you a breathalyzer test to see if you are legally drunk.”

“If it’s legal, what’s the problem?”

(Author’s note: That last line I just made up. But the rest of the story is 100% true.)

When I got home, Mary Ellen asked me why I was so late. I told her that when I made a left turn off of Keystone I hit my front tire on the median and a cop pulled me over for being intoxicated.

“You do that all the time. Why didn’t you just tell him you’re a lousy driver?”

“I did tell him that.”

Mary Ellen burst out laughing. “I was just kidding. I can’t believe you said something that to a policeman.”

I called my friend Rob Butler, who sold me my car, and told him the story….

“That’s amazing. How do these things happen to you?” asked Rob. “And the funny part is, you’re a good driver.”

“I am?”

Of course not, I was just kidding”

The more I thought about this faulty left-hand turn, the more I wondered about my driving ability. So I went back to that corner and made the same maneuver multiple times. In nine out of ten attempts, I  was successful in negotiating that pesky strip that divides the street.

If I were a baseball player in the World Series, that would be a 900 average. But it wouldn’t be for hitting. It would be for missing.

CELL MATE

CELL MATE

It’s not easy being Dick Wolfsie’s cell phone. He’s misplaced me 72 times just in the past 18 months. Of course, I was never really lost. I knew exactly where I was, but have you ever tried to get this guy’s attention?

I’m also all chewed up because his destructive dog likes to gnaw on my corners. I’ve become a cellular cookie, a mobile meatloaf, if you will. It’s not a job I’d call home about. Next time, no pets. 

Here’s my story: On Sunday, I’m at the Shrine Circus at the Fairgrounds where Dick is doing a TV show. I’m in his pocket. No, now I’m resting on top of a clown cannon. Oops! He just shoved me under his coat on a chair. I’m lost. He starts looking all over for me. Now he’s borrowing a phone. He’s going to call me. Uh oh, my battery is running low. I ring. Success.

We’re headed home. He just throws me in his briefcase and I land in a tiny hidden pocket next to a health insurance card that has been missing for the last month. He’ll never find me here. I can just peek out the tattered corner of the leather bag and see him.

Monday: I’m still in this briefcase, but he doesn’t know I am missing because he never left the house all day and most calls go to his regular phone. It’s really dark in here.

Tuesday: He’s looking for me. He’s checking every coat pocket....Oh, here he comes toward his briefcase. He peers into the abyss, but he can’t see me. Call me! Call me before it’s too late! He heads for his desk phone. I go right to voicemail. My battery is dead.

Wednesday: He heads back to the Fairgrounds to see if he left the phone there. I’m right next to him in his briefcase. Oh, the irony. No, they didn’t find a cell phone at the Circus. Back home, he searches the entire car, including where I once slid under one of the floor mats. The rest of the day he looks everywhere, including in his briefcase four more times. Boy could I use a charge.

Thursday: He’s given up. We head to the cell phone store. Time to buy a replacement. His contract is almost expired so they make him a deal on a sexy new model with a lot of features so he can get email he’ll never learn how to access, and take countless accidental pictures of his ear. He falls for it. Men! The salesperson destroys me digitally on the computer. I am cellular non grata.

Dick gets back in the car and we head home. Once in the house, he starts reading the new instruction booklet. He’s confused and frustrated. He has underestimated the power of familiarity. He’s starts pushing buttons wildly. He hasn’t had this look on his face since he bought a new toaster.

Suddenly, a flash of insight. He stares at his briefcase. He walks over and turns it completely upside down and shakes it. Out I fall. Also his insurance card. And a set of keys from his last car and his sister’s Happy 55^th Birthday card. (She’s 57 now.)

He embraces me and kisses my mangled corners.

Friday: We head back to the phone store. He tells the clerk he doesn’t want his new phone, that he’ll eat the cost. He just wants his old friend back. My circuits well up.

“Okay,” says the perplexed customer service rep, “but keep the new phone, just in case you lose the old one again.”

“Yeah,” says Dick, “like that would ever happen.”