I was working the graveyard shift last night (I’m in the health care profession, which sometimes involves shift work in the hospital). While I rushing around from patient to patient, I heard a vaguely familiar voice say, “So, how’s the car doing?”
I turned around to see the
T-1000 police officer who had grilled me at the scene of the accident sitting behind me. Although he was smiling (which is only the second time I’ve seen him smile), my first thought was that he had decided to press charges after all and was here to haul my ass straight to jail without passing Go and collecting $200. I could feel my bladder on the verge of spasming (cops are an excellent diuretic, I find), so I quickly stammered, “Th-the car? Oh, it’s, uh, it’s fine, I g-guess. The repair shop estimated that it has, um, you know, $3800 in damage, so that’s, uh, yeah…that’s not very fun.”
I didn’t know what else to say, so I started to apologize for not recognizing him and saying hello sooner (I figure you can’t really apologize too much to a police officer, right?). He laughed (!) and said, “Nah, don’t worry about it. I know your job is busy. I’m here on the job, too.”
He was here on the job, too? I thought. Fuck, I hope his “job” isn’t to read me my Miranda rights as he handcuffs me and takes me to the police station to charge me with damage of property or vehicular insanity, or whatever it’s called.
Luckily he stepped aside to reveal a man who was handcuffed to one of the hospital beds, screaming and swearing like a sailor. The guy was clearly high on something other than life, so I figured that the police had brought him to the hospital to be cleared medically before throwing him in the slammer for the night.
"Oh. Well, um, it’s nice to see you again. Thanks for, you know, for all of your help," I mumbled. I then quickly excused myself before I said something unintentionally incriminating or accidentally pissed my pants.
These have been some very unusual days, indeed. If life would just go back to normal, that would be super.