The Phlebotomist

The Phlebotomist

           

I hate needles!  When I was growing up, I told my parents they would never have to worry about my becoming a drug addict, because even the sight of a needle makes me queasy.  Every time I have to take a physical, I stress about the needle.  I’ll worry about the blood test a full day ahead, and I usually don’t sleep well the night before.  It doesn’t really matter if it’s a prick on the finger (still a needle) or an inch long needle in the main blood vessel, I still hate needles!  I imagine them going in, coming out, and if I feel anything, I come close to passing out.

            What made matters worse was that In the 12 months from 2004 to 2005, I had 5 physicals, all for life insurance.  It was my own fault, because I kept changing carriers or adding policies.  By the time I came to physical number 4, I was a nervous wreck and had a little talk with my agent, Jim Wapner.

            “Jim, you don’t know what you are asking me to do. They’re going to need another blood test, aren’t they?”.

            Jim rubbed his bald head, “Come on, don’t be a baby, it’s only a little prick.  Plus, if you want insurance while you’re flying your helicopter, you’re going to need it. Think of your family.”

            He spoke like a true salesman, and I knew that I had no choice.

            “Okay, but can you find me someone better than that group of roving nurses who show up at my house or the office.  They are like gypsies and just seem to be in a hurry to get to the next job.  I need a clinic, where I can lie down, get relaxed and be done with it.  And one more thing, I need an experienced nurse who’s going to be sympathetic and gentle.”

            “I’ll see what I can do,” answered Jim.

            The next day Jim called me all excited.  “You’re going to love me!  I found you the perfect person to take your blood.  Her name is Amy Dawson, and she has her own clinic in Kingsport.  She’s been taking blood for 20 years and she says that she deals with squeamish people all the time.  All the doctors rave about her being the best phlebotomist in town. You have an appointment with Amy tomorrow morning at 6 a.m.”

            “Thanks Jim.  You’re a good man.”

            I woke up early the next morning and made the 30 minute drive to Kingsport.  Amy’s clinic was tucked away in a business park.  When I drove up, most of the lights were still off in her building.  The door was open so I walked in and sat down in the lobby.  After a few minutes Amy walked in.

            “Good morning,” she said cheerfully.  “You’re the first appointment of the day.  If you would, please follow me into the examination room.”

            I sat in a state of morning drowsiness.  Amy was not what I imagined.  She wore pink scrubs and was heavy set, but she also had the thickest pair of glasses I had ever seen.  They were an old style trifocal, probably from the seventies.

            “Are you coming?” she asked motioning to the door.

            I got up and followed.

            She picked up a clipboard and pulled it close to her face, to make sure she had the correct form.  She continued staring at it intently, as if she was still not sure what it said and then began.  “Now, I need to ask you some questions and you need to answer them truthfully.”  She pulled the clipboard about 1 inch from her face and squinted.  I could see that she was struggling to focus.  “Have you been with a prostitute in the last 6 months?”

            “No,” I answered and then I watched her check a box.

            “Have you had sex with another man in the last 6 months?”

            “No,” I answered.

            She checked another box.

            “Have you ever been diagnosed with HIV?”

            “No.”

            “Blood in your urine?”

            “No.”

            “How about in your stool?”

            “No.”

            The questions continued until she had finished her checklist.  The phone rang.  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

            I picked up the clipboard and scanned the questions.  I was aghast when I saw that she answered every question the opposite of my answer. So, according to the form, I had slept with prostitutes, men, had HIV, blood in my urine, stool and so forth.  When she returned, I pointed out her error.  She pulled the form close to her face again and answered, “Nuts, now I’m going to have to fill this all out again.

            “Give me a form,” I asked.  “I can fill it out quickly.”

            “It’s not allowed.  I have to ask you the questions and then fill it out.”

            She got a fresh form and began again.  On 2 occasions I caught her checking the wrong box.

            “I’m so sorry,” she said.  “I just don’t see like I used to.  The old eyes are giving out.”

            It took nearly an hour to have the survey completed to my liking and the moment of truth had arrived.  I was thinking of only one thing, the needle.  “If she can’t see well enough to fill out a form, how is she going to be able to see well enough to stick a needle in my vein?”

            “Lie down over here,” she said pointing to a small clinical bed covered by a white sheet of paper.  She pulled out her medical kit and fumbled with the needle and the series of usual vials.  “Now just relax, Jim said that you are a little nervous.  It will be over in a flash.  Make a fist…..there we go.”  The last thing I remembered was a hard jab.

            I woke up 30 minutes later with her sitting beside me. 

“Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” She asked.

I looked up at her a little weary.  “No it wasn’t.  Did I fall asleep?”

“Yep, you’ve been out for about half an hour.”

My arm was throbbing so I looked down.  To my horror there were about 6 holes in my arm, a couple of them still bleeding!  “What happened?”

“I had a little trouble finding the vein.”

“But I have big veins.”

“They were a little soft and I had to do a little digging.  But I’m going to wrap up that arm and you should be fine.  She came back with a bottle of antiseptic and gauze.  “This may sting a little.”

 I screamed as the antiseptic bit into the wounds.

“We’ll have the results in a couple of days,” she said matter of factly and left the room.

Still a little woozy, I struggled to my feet and made my way to the door.  As soon as I was in my car, I called Jim Wapner and told him the story.

“I only heard good things about her,” was his response.

“Now I’m worried that she’s going to get my blood mixed up with someone else and God knows what the insurance company will say.”

“Well I’m glad you called, because I won’t call her again. Oh, for your disability policy they’re going to need another blood test.  Do you want me to call the gypsies?” he giggled.

“Can’t we just use the results of this test?”

“Different company.”

“Anyone but Amy, please.  Can you make sure they have 20/20 vision?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Can you wait a couple of days for my arm to heal?”

“Did she poke both arms?”

“No.”

“Then one of them is still good.”

            Fortunately the next test was uneventful.

Ultimate Trouble - Story #5

Oak Mountain

            I couldn’t sleep trying to imagine what it would be like, a real ski resort, with real ski runs and real ski lifts.  I was only eleven years old, and though an accomplished downhill skier, I had never been to a ski resort.  My friends and I were extreme skiers, hiking to the top of different foothills in the Adirondack Mountains with our Frankenstein-like ski boots and our skis over our shoulders, and then racing each other to the bottom.  Often the ungroomed, unchartered trails were treacherous, filled with every natural obstacle conceivable such as tree trunks, hidden rocks and thorny bushes that would rip our clothing or dig into any exposed flesh with one swipe.  But we were never deterred, even though we usually had the physical and mental stamina for only one such run a day. 

            Being carried to the top of a mountain by a machine called a “T-Bar” was unheard of in my little circle.  Trails without natural barriers seemed even more absurd.  But tomorrow the mystery would be over, my sixth grade class was taking a school trip to Oak Mountain, a small ski resort in Wells, NY.

            There were about thirty young boys and girls who loaded into the yellow and black bus that would take us on our class trip.  Mr. Stafford, an athletic coach and history teacher, was our chaperon.   He barked out orders like a drill sergeant, “Place all your equipment in a pile behind the bus….if anyone misbehaves on the ride to Oak Mountain, they will not be allowed to ski….Skip, if I see you grabbing Jennifer one more time, I’m going to call your mother to come and get you….Once we arrive, we will pile your equipment outside the bus; you should find your own equipment and wait for the group.  We will all enter the resort together…” the ordering and barking went on and on.

            Everyone was so excited about the trip that we were all on our best behavior, everyone except Skip Johnson, who continued to grab at and irritate Jennifer Lawson.

            When we arrived, I couldn’t believe the sheer size and majesty of Oak Mountain.  The runs were clearly cut through the woods and looked like white ribbons on the head of a beautiful girl.  The peak was so high that it was not visible through the clouds.  Giant machines were twirling, taking people two at a time up the various ski runs.  I couldn’t wait!  I had to go to the top of Oak Mountain!

            Unfortunately, I had to wait.

            The first run of the day was down the smallest of the ski runs.  Coach Stafford wanted to see our ability, before he released us to the main portion of the mountain.  So, one at a time, all thirty of us grabbed the “rope tow” and proceeded to the top of the “bunny hill”.  It took Skip Johnson, Charley Legero and me about fifteen seconds to conquer this little hill, and Coach Stafford gave us the green light to proceed to Oak Mountain Run, an intermediate level run that was the most popular ski trail at the resort.  Initially our biggest problem was mastering the “T-Bar” that would take us to the top.  The “T-Bar” was a piece of wood shaped like a “T” that was connected to a wire that extended and retracted out of a large lanyard.  The lanyard was connected to a huge metal cable.  When it was our turn, two of us would scurry into position and the attendant would grab hold of the bar, pull enough wire out of the lanyard, so that the two portions of the “T” would go behind our two little butts.  The “T-bar” would then drag us up the mountain.  It all seemed very simple.  However, it took us four or five tries to make it up the mountain. We would either tip over with the initial jerk when the cable started to pull, or we would lose concentration somewhere along the way to the top and cross our own skis, get our skis tangled with each other, or simply lose our balance and fall off.  This proved quite humiliating, especially because there were always classmates coming behind us, with brutal comments. 

I still remember Buddy Brown yelling, “Hey Johnson, you sissy, why are you getting off here, all the girls are on the top of the mountain?”

Skip retaliated by taking a large dead tree limb and throwing it across Buddy’s path. This caused not only Buddy but the next eight “T-Bar” riders to go down.  It became a multi-skier pile-up that was so severe that the attendant had to shut down the whole lift for about twenty minutes. Skip hid in the bushes and snuck unseen through the woods.  Fortunately, they never found out who had thrown the branch or we would have probably been thrown out of the resort. 

It took us most of the morning, but soon we mastered the “T-Bar.”

            Once on top of the mountain, we were on top of the world.  We looked down and saw the scores of skiers zig-zagging effortlessly down the slope. 

This was different from what we had experienced.  We only knew one way of skiing, full speed.

            “Let’s start the first heat,” said Skip, “The person with the most victories at the end of the day will be the Oak Mountain champion.”

            Charley and I nodded in agreement.

            There was also another incentive for being the first two down the hill.  Third place had to ride the “T-Bar” with a stranger and this proved quite difficult when the stranger was an adult because their butt was so much higher than ours, placing us at even more risk of falling off the “T-Bar.”

            “Three, two, one…go!” yelled Skip.

            We all dug our poles into the hard packed snow, assumed our downhill racing “tuck” and proceeded straight down the mountain.  The snow was hard packed and icy in places, much different and much faster than the thick powder we were used to.  Our skis rattled on the ground.  Soon we picked up an incredible amount of speed.  I would guess that we were going somewhere between forty and fifty miles per hour and climbing.  Our steering ability was crude and barely existent.  Like arrows shot through a crowded street, we flew past the other skiers, with several near collisions.

            Charley won the first heat, Skip came in second and I was third.  We decided that after lunch, it would be time to impress the girls. 

By 11:15 I was absolutely starving and couldn’t wait to eat lunch.  I had gotten up early and made myself a fried egg sandwich, grabbed a bag of chips and an apple.  Unfortunately I had left my little brown bag on the bus, and had to get Mr. Stafford to help me retrieve it.

            “Ha, ha,” I thought as I watched my friends open up their typical bologna and peanut butter sandwiches, “Wait until they see what I have.”  I pulled it out of the sack, unfolded the wax paper and took a big bite….or tried to take a big bite.  It was frozen solid!  I rapped it on the cafeteria table and it made a loud knock, completely inedible.  I tossed it on the floor and we kicked it around like a hockey puck, until Mr. Stafford yelled at us and I threw it away.  I ended up having to use two of my hard earned dollars to buy a hot dog and some fries.

            It was time for the afternoon festivities.  Skip had gotten three girls to agree to race us down the hill.  The only stipulation was that they would start at the halfway point and we would start at the top.  It would be difficult to win, but not impossible.  We would have to go faster than ever before.  They agreed to wait seven minutes from the time they exited the “T-Bar” to give us the opportunity to make it to the top.  We scooted immediately from the “T-Bar” into full racing mode.  I got the best jump and was in the lead.  Faster, faster, faster I went.  I could feel the wind pull at my cheeks and my eyes tear.  I could see the girls up ahead.  I was going to catch them….until….a middle aged man turned directly into my path.  There was no way that I could get around him, so I buried my chin into my chest and braced myself for a nasty collision.  The top of my head hit him in the middle of his left thigh, and my momentum picked him right up off from the ground.  For a few seconds, I was carrying this two hundred pound man on the top of my head.  It was an amazing feat of physics. The collision and weight of the man altered my course and forced me towards the woods, through several patches of thorny bushes, and a bunch of dead trees.  This was much more like the skiing I was used to.  A small forest of pine trees finally stopped the man and me. 

I looked him in the eye and could see only terror and pain. He was gasping for breath.

            “Sorry, mister,” I said picking myself up and making my way back to the trail.  I felt bad that I had maimed this man, but realized that I had lost valuable seconds and had to get back into the race quickly if I had any possibility of winning.  I stumbled through several pieces of his equipment as I followed the tracks back out to the main trail.

            Once on the trail I resumed my racing form, but finished dead last in the race.  Apparently the crash took more time than I thought.  Skip, Charley and the girls waited at the bottom to mock me.  I did much better in the next race.

About twenty minutes later the ski patrol came down the mountain pulling someone on a toboggan.  I recognized the man I had crashed into.

            “I always wanted to ride in one of those things,” said Skip.

            “Me too,” I repeated.

            The rest of the day was spent exploring all the different trails at Oak Mountain.  We even started turning a little, using the snowplow. 

On the way home Mr. Stafford complimented us on our good behavior.

            “Thank-you,” he said, “for being a proud representation of Mayfield Elementary School.”

            “You’re very welcome,” repeated Skip, Charley and I, together with the rest of my sixth grade class.    It felt very good to be included, for once, with the good kids.

Ultimate Trouble - Story #4

The Marble Shower

            The new wood floors looked great!  The floor installers had ripped all the nasty rust and blue colored carpet from the concrete slab, put it in the back of their old pick-up truck and replaced it with the most beautiful oak flooring we had ever seen.  We had endured the sights and smell of that carpet for over five years and the hardwood floors sparkled with their fresh polyurethane coating.  This was the first phase of a major remodeling project to our home in Arlington, Texas, which began with the wood floors and continued with a brand new kitchen, including new cabinets, countertops and a new tile floor and would end with a marble shower in the bathroom.  I coordinated everything with the subcontractors and carefully priced and planned each phase of the project.  Mary and I stood spellbound admiring the beautiful hardwood floors.

            “Have you ever seen anything like them?” I asked.

            “Gorgeous.  I’ve never seen one thing improve a house as much as these floors.  Was the carpet really that hideous?”

            “It really was.  Did you see all that dust and dirt that came out of it when they dragged it away?  I don’t ever want to have carpet in this house again.”

            “I agree, but we have to take care of these floors if we want them to keep looking this good,” said Mary.

            “I’m one step ahead of you,” I replied as I retrieved a mop and a bottle of special polishing spray I had bought from the flooring store.  “It’s pretty simple.  You spray a little of this on the head of the mop and it turns the mop into a magnet that attracts the dirt.  And at the same time it polishes the floor.  I’m going to do this every evening.”

            “We’ll see,” answered Mary as she rolled her eyes.  “And what are you going to do about the dogs?  Aren’t their claws going to scratch the floor?”

            “I thought of that, too.”  I went into the bedroom and retrieved a bag containing 4 baby booties and 4 pieces of Velcro.  “I’m not too worried about Shasta, because dachshunds have pretty little feet, but I have something for Chewy.  Chewy, come here,” I called.  Our black Chow Chow suspiciously stuck her head around the corner, questioning what was going on.  I lured her to me with the promise of a butt rub; then I put the pink booties on her paws one at a time and then velcroed each in place.  “Pink goes well with her, don’t you think?”

            “You’re a nut case,” answered Mary.

            At first Chewy skated around the house on the slippery floors like a child on their first pair of ice skates, but in a few days she got the hang of them.  Not once did she try to take them off and soon it became a daily ritual putting them on her in the morning, taking them off when she went out and putting them back on when she came in.

            “I’m surprised you don’t spray that polish on Chewy’s booties so that she can polish the floor as she walks around.”

            “That’s a good idea,” I replied.

            Every night I was true to my promise and polished our floors.  Afterwards, I would sit and admire how beautiful they looked in our home.

            Over the next 3 months, the other home improvement projects progressed well and the new kitchen exceeded our expectations and our budget.  All that was left was the marble shower in our master bedroom.  Mary and I had visited several homes with synthetic marble showers and decided that although expensive, they were the best alternative because of looks, durability and maintenance.  There were not many marble plants, and we decided on Precision Marble in Fort Worth, Texas, based on a recommendation from a builder.  The salesman at Precision explained all the displays in the showroom before leading us into a small room with a desk, 2 chairs and a catalogue.  Mary chose the color and style.

            “So, you would like the beige marble with a bench?”  said the middle-aged man who, by the size of his stomach, liked to drink beer.

            Mary looked over at me, knowing that it was the first I had heard of a bench and said, “Don’t look at me like that.  You have no idea how hard it is to shave your legs standing up in a shower and I’ve always wanted a bench.”

            “How much more is it?” I asked.

            “$750,” answered the salesman.

            I debated all the options and realized the best one was to succumb.  “No problem,” I said.

            “Do you want us to take out the old shower, or are you going to do that yourself?” the salesman asked.”

            “How much?”

            “$175.”

            “What do you think honey?” I asked.

            Knowing my long history of disasters with home projects she answered quickly, “We’d best leave this to the professionals.”

            When it was all said and done, I signed a contract for $5,200.  But, it was a once in this house investment, and we did plan to stay for a while.

            “When can the crew come out to remove the old shower?” asked Mary.

            The salesman looked at his schedule and then answered, “How about Tuesday morning?”

            “That will work for me,” answered Mary.

            “All right then and how about we start putting the new shower in on Thursday?”

            “That quick?  That’ll be great!”  answered Mary.

            On Tuesday morning 3 grungy, overweight workers dressed in t-shirts and blue jeans came to the door with a sledge hammer and a box of garbage bags.  Mary pointed them to the shower and they walked through our master bedroom, across our new hardwood floor and the destruction began.  I came home from lunch and couldn’t believe my eyes.  The entire house was a dust cloud from the broken ceramic tile.  Pieces of tile covered the bathroom floor and vanity like shrapnel.  And then there was my new hardwood floor.  There were shards of tile all over it that had apparently leaked from the garbage bags that the crew was dragging across it.  It was an absolute nightmare!  And then instead of cleaning up the pieces, they walked over them, grinding the jagged pieces through the beautiful finish of the floor and into the hardwood!  I couldn’t contain myself.

            “What are you doing?”  I yelled.

            The lead man replied, “We’re ripping out your shower.”

            “But look what you’re doing to my new floor!”

            He looked down and didn’t see the significance.  “We’ll be done in a couple of hours and then we’ll sweep it off.”

            “I mean the scratches!  You’re scratching it all up!”

            “Hey, calm down.  I ain’t got to take you yelling at me.”

            “Get out!”  I yelled. “I’m calling you’re manager.”

            The lead man signaled to the other two and they made a few grunts as they walked across the shards and then left.  I pulled out a broom and a heavy duty vacuum and started cleaning up the mess.  The new floor was a disaster with scratches every few inches and dust permanently packed into every nook and cranny.  The old shower was only partially removed, but they had worked long enough to knock a hole in the ceiling and into the attic allowing cold air to pour in.

            Mary and I looked at the mess.

            “Maybe you should have let them finish,” she said.  “Now we have even a bigger mess.  And it’s supposed to go down below freezing tonight.”

            “They’ll finish all right!  I’ll get a different crew out here immediately.  I’m going to call the manager of that tile place right now!”

            The phone call made its way to the owner of Precision Marble and it did not go well.  I demanded that he come and see the damage his men had done to my new floor.  He evidently received a different story from his crew and was very defensive, but agreed to come to our house.  While I waited, I took a package of post-it sticky notes and placed a yellow note with an arrow pointing to each scratch.  When I was finished, the floor was carpeted with yellow paper.  The owner knocked on the door a few minutes later.  He was a nice looking Hispanic man, in his mid-thirties.  He stared at all the sticky notes in disbelief.

            “It was a brand new floor,” I said.  “And they ruined it.”

            “How much will it cost to refinish it?” asked the owner.

            I quickly calculated.  “It will cost about $500.”

            “Fine, I’ll send you a check by the end of the week.”

            “And when are you going to send a crew to finish the job?” asked Mary.

            The owner looked directly at me and said, “We’re through with you.  Find someone else to do your shower.”

            “What do you mean?” I asked.  “You’re not done and you put a hole in my ceiling.”

            He looked at me and smiled, “I mean, I’m going to pay you $500 and I don’t want anything more to do with you, now good-day.”

            Mary and I looked at each other and were horrified.

            “What are we going to do now?” she asked.

            “We’ll just call another marble shop.”

            I looked in the yellow pages and there were only 3 other shops in our area.  I gave Gerry’s Marble and Granite a call.

            “Yes, I would like for you to complete a shower for me.”

            The salesman took all of our specifications and then asked me to hold while he priced the job.  After about 10 minutes he came back on the phone.  “The owner doesn’t want to do your job.  He said something about a nut-case with sticky notes all over a wooden floor.”

            “That’s because Precision Marble spilled tile all over the floor and then walked over it.”

            “I guess that’s the reason,” he continued.  “Precision Marble is our owner’s brother.”

            I tried the next shop and received the same answer.  I soon realized that all of the marble shops were divisions of the same family and no one would complete my job.

            That night, a blue norther brought icy temperatures to Arlington, Texas, and the wind and cold whistled through the hole in my ceiling.  Mary and I snuggled to keep warm.

            The next day I continued calling marble shops until I found a shop not related to Precision Marble.  They were nearly 100 miles away and I had to pay a 15% premium and wait almost 6 weeks.  The check came to repair the floor, but I waited until the new shower was done to have it refinished.  

When the remodeling was complete, we felt as if we had survived a small war.  Unfortunately, within the next few months my employer relocated me to Tennessee.  And, of course the house that we bought needs a new shower. But this time I think I’m going to go with fiberglass.

Ultimate Trouble - Story #3

The Magic Hat

In December 2003 we were on a family vacation in the Florida Keys when I decided to mix a little business with pleasure by meeting with the aviation department of the Monroe County Sheriff’s department.  The aviation unit had just finished a new office building and hangar at Marathon airport, about halfway between Key Largo and Key West and operated an emergency medical Huey (UH-1) and a couple OH-58A’s.  All of their helicopters were surplus from the United States military.  My son Brad and I went in to meet with a couple of the pilots who were very proud of their mission with the unit.  They were gracious enough to give us a tour of their facility and talk with us about their future helicopter requirements.  I invited them both to lunch and they accepted.  About halfway through the meal one of the pilots went to his car and brought Brad and me each an official Monroe County Deputy Sheriff hat.

““Now I’m going to give you one of these hats, but be careful what you do with it.  Everyone wants these hats, because they’re made of this perforated material and are really cool in the summertime.  They also like them because they’re official police hats and they can use them to get discounts around the Keys.  Don’t tell anyone that you got them from me.”

            “Thank you,” I replied.

            “Yeah, thanks,” said my son Brad as he put it on his head and shaped the bill of the cap.

            It wasn’t long after I found the benefits of the Monroe County Sheriff’s hat.  It was like a magic hat.

            “I’d like to go scuba diving.  What do you have available?” I asked the cute young attendant at the Coral Dive Shop in Key Largo.

            “Yes sir, officer,” she replied.  “We have a boat going out at 8 A.M. in the morning that goes to a sunken barge and then by a reef that usually has quite a few nurse sharks.”

            “I’m not sure,” I said trying to sort through our schedule in my mind.

            “They’re really the best dives we do.  And, of course, you’ll receive a 40% discount because you are a deputy sheriff.”

            I quickly calculated the savings in my mind.  “Does that discount apply to my family?” I asked.

            “Sure does,” she answered with a smile.

            I multiplied the savings by 4.  “I’ll take it,” I said. afraid she might change her mind.

            From the scuba shop we went to dinner at a local restaurant.  It was a rustic place with a typical nautical theme.  Oars and ship wheels and ropes decorated the walls.  I wore the magic hat through the meal and received the surprise of my life when I asked for the bill.

            “It’s on us,” said the owner/cook sticking his head out from the kitchen door.  “We’re just happy that ya’ll stop in, you know, it makes us feel real safe.”

            Mary gave me a nudge, “You should tell them that you’re not a real police officer.”

           "I never told her I was one," I replied. 

           "It's that damn hat....take that hat off," she answered.

           

            The next day we enjoyed a great scuba dive.  I wore the hat on the boat, to and from the dive site, and the crew treated us like royalty.  I was getting used to the privileges that came with the magic hat. But all good things come to an end, and later in the day, I reached the limit of the magic powers of my Monroe County Sheriff’s hat.  Mary was looking for a bottle of her favorite wine which was not available in our home town.  I let her out in front of the wine store and waited in the fire lane.  To my surprise there was a light knock on my window.  I looked up to see a short and pudgy Monroe County Deputy sheriff.

            I rolled down the window.

            “License and registration,” he said in a stern authoritative voice.

            I reached in my pocket and gave him my license.  “This is a rental car,” I said.  “So I don’t have the registration.”

            He took the license and stood behind the car writing down the license plate number.  He went to his car and was on the microphone obviously running the plates through the DMV.  Soon he climbed out of his car, flipped open a ticket book and began writing a ticket.

            “What in the world?” I thought.  I then looked over and saw my magic hat lying on the back seat.  “No wonder,” I thought.  “I wasn’t wearing the hat.”  At the same time Mary came out of the liquor store.

            “What’s going on?” she asked.

            “He’s writing me a ticket.”

            “What for?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “You don’t know, what do you mean you don’t know?”

            “I didn’t do anything.”

            “I’ll take care of this,” said Mary.

            “No let me, I’ve got a better way.” 

            I put on the magic hat, opened my door and strutted towards him.

            “Is there a problem officer?” I asked lifting my chin and making sure that he saw the magic hat.

            “Yes, you’re parked in a fire lane.”

            “I wasn’t parked, I was waiting for my wife.”

            “I don’t care what you call it,” he answered.  “You’re not allowed to park or stand inside that line.”  He continued writing the ticket.

            “What is wrong?” I thought.  “The hat’s not working.  Sir, I continued shaking my head back and forth.  Certainly you can give me a break.”

            “And why would I do that?” he answered.  “I’m not through with you.  But I have to finish writing this ticket.  So please shut up and let me finish.”

            Slowly and methodically he finished the ticket, and then with a quick tug he snapped it out of his book and handed it to me.

            “Now let me ask you another question, are you an employee of Monroe County?”

            “No,” I answered.

            “Then you are under arrest for impersonating a police officer.  Put your hands behind your back.”

            Mary saw that I was having trouble and came charging around the car.

            “What’s going on here!” she demanded.

            “Mary, please don’t get into it with this guy,” I pleaded.

            “I’m arresting your husband for impersonating a Monroe County Deputy Sheriff,” he answered.

            “For what?  For wearing a hat?”

            “That’s an official Monroe County Sheriff’s hat,” he said.

            “And it was given to him by the Monroe County Sheriff’s department.  I want to know where it says he can’t wear that hat,” she continued, pushing closer to the officer’s face.

            “Article 19 section 2,” he answered.

            “Show it to me,” she shouted.

            The deputy backed up.

            “Oh my god,” I thought.  “He’s not going to pistol whip her, he’s going to pistol whip me.”  I surveyed his belt to see if he had a stun gun.

            He spun me around and looked directly in my eyes, “I would recommend that you get back in your car right now and take off that hat immediately,” he said.

            I breathed a sigh of relief.

            Mary wasn’t through with him, “Why did you give us a ticket?  I was on my way out of the store.  You saw me coming and you still gave me a ticket.”

            “Please God,” I thought.  “Tell her to get back into the car.”

            A red Buick slowed down and pulled close to our car.  The electric window rolled down revealing a snarling, middle aged woman.

            “Fight it,” she yelled.  “They’re always doing this to tourists, giving them tickets for no reason. You’ll win!”  She gave the officer an evil look and drove off.

            I was leaving the next day, so I couldn’t fight the ticket.  It ended up costing me $55 for this story, but considering the discounts I got wearing the hat, it was still a good deal.

Ultimate Trouble - Story #2

Cow Town Marathon

 

            Every year, I participated in the Fort Worth Cow Town marathon 10K with a group from Bell Helicopter. I have always just been a recreational runner, so I had never tried the 26 mile marathon, but I liked to test my stamina every year in the 6.2 mile 10K race. This year my wife Mary decided to join me to see what the race was all about. Mary wasn’t a runner, and although a good athlete, she had never found pleasure in pounding out stress on the open road. We lived in Arlington, Texas, and made the short drive to the Fort Worth Stockyards for the beginning of the race. 

“Now let’s decide where we’re going to meet after the race,” I said to Mary as we got out of our car and entered the throng of runners with their numbers pinned to their backs, all heading from the parking lot to the starting line.

She followed nervously behind me as we came to the line of refreshment stands and buildings set up to promote health products and provide free samples to therunners.

“Do you see that big Lemon Chill sign?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Well, it will take me about 48 minutes to do the 6.2 mile 10K and it should take you a little over an hour, so I’ll be waiting for you there, okay?”

She nodded again.

We pushed our way through the crowd toward the starting line.

“How come this line is so long?” she asked. “It will take 10 minutes just to cross the actual place where the race begins.”

“Relax, you’re not worried about time, so just go with the flow. I’m going to weasel my way closer, because I’m competing. I don’t want to lose any time that I don’t have to.”

“I thought we would run together,” she pouted.

I looked down at her running shoes and saw her stylish white Keds.

“You don’t even have running shoes on! You should just walk at a brisk pace and enjoy the view and the people. I’ll see you in an hour.”

The starter’s gun fired and the 12,000 runners were off. Most were simply running in place, waiting for the glob of people in front of them to move. It was like a traffic jam that suddenly clears but takes several minutes for traffic to start moving. Once past the starting line the mass slowly thinned out to their respective paces. My pace was one of the more popular ones at about 7:45 minutes per mile. The thousands of feet thundered like a cattle stampede causing the asphalt to quake. There were all sorts of people around me: women, kids, old men, amputees, parents pushing children in special strollers, fat people and skinny people. We were all plodding ahead trying to pace ourselves, so that we wouldn’t have to stop and be among the shamed walking along the road. At the first mile, a timer called out the times: “7:35, 7:40, 7:45”, I was right on pace. The first test was when I crossed White Settlement Road and entered a long uphill climb at the 11Ž2 mile mark that squeezed my lungs and made my quads burn. I passed the second mile timer at 16:00 minutes. I was slowing down. There were volunteers everywhere handing out cups of water and electrolytes. I grabbed a cup of water and threw it on my face. The third mile was a beautiful path along the Trinity River. The timer screamed 25:15, I was beginning to fade. During the fourth mile I was passed by a 300 lb. man with a bright orange t-shirt with the word COACH written on the back. “How can he be faster than me?” I thought. I caught him and passed him; 32:30 the four miler timer called out. I was getting faster.

The fifth mile was a real drag and I thought I was going to have to stop until COACH plodded past me and I got my second wind, 41:45. We were now in the final mile, and COACH had decided to turn the event into a two man race. We were stride for stride as we headed down Harley Ave. There was a mariachi band playing, and the streets were lined with screaming and encouraging fans. I could see the finish line. The COACH and I were in a dead sprint. He was quite fast for a big man. I leaned at the wire, he leaned at the wire and he beat me by a belly. I finished at 49:42, COACH finished at 49:40, thankfully no one would ever know but me and him.

Winded and leg weary, I cooled down by continuing to walk toward the refreshment stands. I grabbed a banana and a cup of yogurt and limped to the Lemon Chill stand. There was a tap on my back. I turned and to my surprise saw my wife Mary standing there eating a power bar.

“How did you get here?” I asked puzzled and confused.

“The same way you did,” she answered.

But when?”

“About a couple of minutes ago, I finished in 47:32. Is that good?”

“No way, I didn’t even see you pass me.”

“It was on the bridge, but there were so many people between us I couldn’t get your attention. I ran with the nicest old lady. She was 74 and stayed with me the whole way.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“Would I look this nasty if I hadn’t just run 6 miles?”

“But you’ve never run before, and those shoes?”

think I like running and I know I could go faster if you bought me a pair of nice running shoes like the ones you’re wearing.”

I hung my head in shame. I was thoroughly beaten: my wife in her white Keds, a 74 year old woman and a nameless man, known only as COACH. Fortunately, that was the end of Mary’s running career. Her body reminded her the next day that in order to run 6.2 miles, your legs need to be conditioned. She walked around like an old lady the next 2 weeks and vowed never to run another Cow Town 10K. I’m kind of glad, because each household is only big enough for one star athlete. 

Like what you read? The newest Trouble book, “How I Found Ultimate Trouble and Ultimate Trouble Found Me,” is scheduled to be published on July 31, 2012! But I will be adding another story soon, so be sure to check back! If you would like to purchase one of my other "Trouble" books, please check out my website: http://www.jeffreymarkshapiro.com