Twas the Day After Christmas and the Cops Came to the Craig House

Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
It was about three in the morning when we were awoken with a bam-and-bang clatter.
We should have gotten up to go see what was the matter.
Instead, hubby and me both went to pee and stumbled back to bed.
Too early for there to be any sugar canes dancing in our heads.
But when daylight hit
I hear my son yell, “SHIT!”
And the bam and bang was suddenly explained.

(Okay, I’m gonna stop this rhyming stuff, because I’m bad at it.)

Here’s the unrhymed version:

The day after Christmas, at three in the morning my son’s truck, parked in front of our house, was hit. And hit hard. While the noise woke us up, we failed to investigate. But hey, it was three in the morning. When son went to leave the next morning, he found his damaged truck, with automobile parts, bumpers, grills and headlights and taillights, some from his truck and some not, littering the street.

You know, at age eighteen, having your truck (AKA: your hot-babe pick-up machine) damaged feels like the end of the world. It took me five minutes to convince my son–in his state of fury—that finding your truck wreaked in front of your house was not a 911 emergency. After talking the phone out of his hands (it was close, I swear he was about to call out the swat team) we called the police.

My son continued to rant. “How could this happen? Don’t you know I only carry liability insurance on this truck? Do you know how much it’s gonna cost to fix this? Why isn’t this considered an emergency?”

You know, I’m certain I’ve told my son that life isn’t always fair, that bad things sometimes happen to good people, but of course, teenagers never listen. Ahh, but my heart still bled for him and to prove it, I gave him my husband’s keys and let him drive his car for the day. (No my heart didn’t bleed so much that I’d give him my car.)

When the cop showed up, he crossed his arms over his ample chest and came to an amazing conclusion. “I’ll bet someone was drunk when he hit this.”

Duh, ya think?

I wish I could tell you that the cop was a total hunk, but nope, he sort of looked like the cop who shot Sue’s couch in my book, Divorced, Desperate and Dating. He looked more like Archie Bunker than he did any of my cop heroes.

Here’s how most of the conversation went.

Cop: They really plowed into that truck.
Hubby: Yup.
Cop: I’ll bet whoever hit this is sore and really pissed this morning.
Me: Not as sore or as pissed as my son is.
Cop: He’s only carrying liability insurance, huh?
Me: Yup.
Cop: Have you ever explained to him that life isn’t fair?
Hubby and I at the same time: Yup.
Cop: They never listen, do they?
Hubby and I: Nope.
Cop: I think some of these parts strewn everyone belongs to the vehicle that hit you.
Hubby: Yup.
Cop: I should take some of them to see if I can get a make of the car. Let me get a bag. (Cop gets a garbage bag out of his Black and White and starts picking up parts.)
Me: You aren’t wearing gloves.
Cop: Huh?
Me: You’re tainting the evidence.
Cop: Tainting it?
Me: Now they won’t be able to check for prints or DNA evidence. And it will be thrown out of court if they do find something.
Cop: (Realizing I’m either a smartass, crazy, or joking--little did he know it was all three.) Oh, damn! I must have left my gloves at home.
Me: (In my serious voice) I’ve heard of cops getting fired for less.
Cop: What are you like some crime-show or CSI freak?
Me: No, just a mystery writer.
Cop: I’m impressed.
Hubby: Don’t be. She makes up freaky crap and writes about it.
Cop: Laughs. (He’s looking and acting more and more like Archie Bunker—so is hubby for that matter!)
Hubby: (Half joking) You’re gonna call us by this afternoon with the name of the owner of the car, aren’t you?
Cop: Uhhh . . .
Me: Come on. It’s Christmas. Miracles sometimes happen.
Hubby: You aren’t ever going catch this guy, are you?
Cop: Not unless he walks into the police station and confesses.

(See, I told you, Son, sometimes life just isn’t fair.)

Now the real kicker came when the cop said that he had to go across the street and talk to our neighbors. No, they hadn’t had a car ran into, but someone had stolen one of their boys’ new bikes from the front yard, and . . . (this is where it gets weird) left a girl’s bike in its place. Would that make the thief a decent person or not? My question is: Is the bike swapper the same person who hit my son’s car?

Now I know you think I’m making this stuff up, but seriously, this kind of crap only happens in real life. And fiction is so much better, because if I was writing this, that cop would have been drop dead gorgeous, and I would have been 15 years younger, thinner, and single. Oh, and there probably would have been a body in my front yard.

So what about you? Any weird stuff to report? How’s your new year ringing in? Are you holding tight to those New Year’s resolutions? Come on, share a bit.

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