[Lady Justice 01] - Lady Justice Takes a C.R.A.P.

by Robert Thornhill

“Oh, Walt,” Maggie gushed. “Doesn’t that look like fun?”

  I had other fun on my mind, but Maggie really wanted to ride a jet ski, so we donned our bathing suits, jumped into the car, and drove to the marina.

  We rented two jet skis for an hour, and I have to admit I was exhilarated as we sped across the water, rooster tails sprouting in our wake. I glanced at the speedometer and realized we were clipping along at thirty-five miles an hour.

  Suddenly, a huge cruiser that looked as big as the Titanic from my perspective, passed us going in the opposite direction. I saw it coming, but I couldn’t avoid it --- a three-foot wave generated by the gigantic cruiser.

  Geronimo! I hit the wave at an angle; the ski became airborne and flew four feet in the air. My heinie rose up off the seat, and my feet flew back just enough to let gravity take over so that Mr. Winkie and the boys hung suspended in midair. Not for long.

  The jet ski hit the water with a smack, my butt hit the seat with a smack, and guess what was in between?

  I moaned, doubled over, and thought I was going to pass out right there in Table Rock Lake. Needless to say, we didn’t spend our full rental hour on the skis. We drove back at a snail’s pace, every little wave exacerbating the pain in my swelling gonads.

  Our room had a lovely balcony facing west and looking out over the lake. We sat side by side on the balcony watching a beautiful sunset while I clutched a bag of ice to my privates. Mr. Winkie was definitely on the blinky.

  After the ice melted, we dressed and went for a nice dinner before our show. We had chosen a country show for the evening—you know, singing, dancing, fiddle playing, and goofy guys telling goofy jokes.

  We arrived at the theater, and as I pulled into the parking lot, I thought I’d arrived at the Greyhound Bus Terminal by mistake. There must have been twenty buses lined up side-by-side coughing out their noxious fumes --- the senior tour buses.

  As we watched the buses spewing forth their human cargo, I did a little mental math. Hmm. Twenty buses each holding at least fifty seniors, multiplied by 130 shows… A scary thought crossed my mind. If some politician were concerned over the national debt, a well-placed bomb in Branson and the resultant drop in Social Security and Medicare payments would go a long way toward wiping out the deficit.

  We got our tickets and proceeded to our seats. I couldn’t believe our good fortune, seats one and two, second aisle from the stage. I figured that since our trip was a last-minute thing we’d probably be sitting in the nosebleed section.

  As I sat there contemplating our good fortune, I heard the tromp, tromp of a hundred feet. I turned in my seat and thought I was watching a reenactment of the Bataan Death March. A robust woman carrying a red flag high over head was leading fifty seniors, who followed dutifully behind. The leader stopped directly in front of me, and then I realized, heaven help us, we were seated right in the middle of the gray hair senior’s tour from Great Bend, Indiana.

  The front row filled up, and the lady with the flag gave me a look that said, “Move it over, Buster.” So I swung my legs into the aisle so the seniors could fill the rest of our row. All was going well until a portly gentleman passing directly in front of me broke wind. If I hadn’t clipped my nose hairs with my Turbo before we left, they would have surely curled.

  At that moment, I remembered a word of wisdom the Professor had once shared with me: “A crowded elevator always smells different to a midget.” I gained new respect for the challenges of the little people.

  We really enjoyed the show. Finally, as it was drawing to a close, the emcee introduced a segment of the show that paid tribute to the men and women who had served in our armed forces. They had prepared a medley of the anthems of the various branches of the service, and they asked the veterans in the audience to stand when they heard the song of their branch of the service.

  As “Anchors Aweigh” played, I looked around and saw maybe a dozen men and women come to their feet. Some gray-haired, some bent and wrinkled, some in their sixties, some in their seventies, some in their eighties, but all who had served their country proudly in Vietnam, Korea, or World War II.

  Then came the anthems for the Army, the Coast Guard, and the Air Force, and with each song a new group stood, proudly representing their branch. Lastly, the words, “From the Halls of Montezuma to the Shores of Tripoli…” and the Marines proudly took the floor.

  As each group stood, I noticed that many of them proudly wore caps with their units emblazoned in gold. These were the men and women who, in their day and time, had served Lady Justice and Lady Liberty so that succeeding generations could continue to be free. These were the men and women who represented those who had paid the ultimate price for our freedom. These were our real heroes. I thought of all those who had gone before and had given their service. And then I thought of the rest of us who still had service to give.

  I had come looking for something to recharge my batteries, and I had just found it.

  The entire cast came to the stage, and as they sang the stirring verses of Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless The USA,” the audience stood as one, and I knew Lady Justice was in good hands.

  Having recharged the spirit, it was now time to recharge the body before we returned home.

  The resort had a wonderful spa in which your body could be pampered in every way legally possible. On rare occasions, Maggie would indulge herself in a spa day at the Country Club Plaza, but I have to admit my shadow had never darkened the doors of a spa.

  Maggie oohed and aahed as she read the services that were available.

  For a price, of course.

  The spa menu might as well have been in a foreign language because it was all Greek to me, so I relied on my sweetie and told her whatever she wanted to indulge us in it would be fine with me.

  Big mistake.

  Everything started off okay. We were led to an infinity whirlpool bath, where we immersed our bodies in the fragrant churning waters. Then we were taken to the massage room, where strong fingers erased the tension in our bodies. Then things started going downhill. Just as I was really getting into the massage thing, some gal showed up and started putting scalding hot rocks on my back.

  OUCH! I passed on that part.

  Well, where next? I wondered as I was led into another room. I was somewhat dubious when I saw the sign that said ‘Salt Scrub’, but then under it were the words ‘Whole body exfoliation to renew, stimulate, and moisturize’. That didn’t sound too bad.

  Wrong! Do you know what exfoliate means? I didn’t then, but I sure do now. It means they’re going to take off the top layer of your skin! With salt, no less. Hasn’t anyone ever heard of the old saying ‘pouring salt in an open wound’? That’s another way of saying ‘It hurts!’

  And exfoliating? After I thought about it, isn’t that what the Air Force did to the jungles of Vietnam with Agent Orange and napalm?

  After I’d finished with that portion of the inquisition, Maggie said, “There’s just one more thing I’d like you to do. I know how much you hate grooming and trimming, so they’ve got a treatment here that will eliminate at least one of your grooming tasks.”

  Cool, I thought. One less thing to trim is okay by me.

  They took me into a room and had me sit in a chair under a sign that said ‘Eyebrow shaping.’

  So I sat.

  A sweet little gal came in, laid me back in the chair, and put a towel around my neck. She poured some sweet smelling goo between my eyebrows and pressed this little patchy thing into the goo. “We’ll just let this set for a minute.”

  Okay.

  In about ten minutes she returned. “Well, sir,” she said, “are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?”

  Rip! “Ahhhhh!”

  No wonder Wilfred Brimley looks the way he does. I don’t blame him.

  It was our last evening in Branson. We had decided to see Andy Williams. All the way into Branson we had seen billboard after billboard advertising his show. And there, bigger than lif
e on those billboards was Andy, just like I remembered him from his TV shows with Donny and Marie. We were really looking forward to it.

  We took our seats among the other golden-agers and anxiously awaited his entrance. Finally, after a rousing fanfare, out onto the stage stepped… Yikes! An Andy Williams zombie!

  Who was this guy? He was old, gray-haired, stooped, and wrinkled. Then it dawned on me. This guy’s eighty-two years old! What did I expect him to look like?

  I sat there waiting to be disappointed, and then he opened his mouth and the sweet, full, melodious strains of Moon River filled the auditorium. The room exploded in a huge round of applause and then fell silent as Andy crooned the verses of that famous song.

  I looked around the room at the gray heads and saw wrinkled old hands reach out and take the hand of the loved one next to them, and I saw tears glisten in old eyes as they relived their youth.

  I reached over and took Maggie by the hand, and I think maybe a tear rolled down my cheek too.

  Probably just allergies.

  Later that evening, Maggie and I took a cruise of our own down Moon River. Captain Winkie piloted the ship into a safe, warm harbor and we weighed anchor for the night.

  We were up bright and early the next morning, ready to head back to Kansas City.

  We were several miles out of Branson when we spotted a sign along the road that said ‘Fresh Farm Laid Eggs. Next Left.’

  “Oh,” Maggie pleaded, “let’s get some fresh eggs. I’ll make you the best omelet you’ve ever tasted when we get home.”

  How could I turn down an offer like that?

  So we made the next left turn and cruised into the driveway with a ‘Fresh Eggs, Please Honk’ sign. I honked and we got out of the car.

  As I closed the car door, I saw two enormous golden retrievers bounding our way. The first one to arrive came right up to me, stuck her snoot in my crotch and sniffed.

  What is it with big dogs and my crotch? At least this one didn’t have her jaws open.

  The front door opened, and a farmer in Big Smith overalls stepped out. “Get down, Lady,” he barked.

  That’s certainly no lady, I thought. A lady wouldn’t sniff your crotch on a first date.

  Then her companion approached, and I assumed he was a male when he hoisted his leg and squirted on my shoe.

  Farm life.

  “Wot kin I do for yer foks?” he asked.

  “We’d like a dozen eggs,” I replied. And a towel too, I thought, but I didn’t ask.

  As I looked around, I saw chickens of all sizes, shapes, and colors roaming about the yard.

  Funny-looking creatures.

  A thought occurred to me that everything in this old world has to begin somewhere. Who do you suppose was the first guy that pointed to a chicken and said, “See that chicken over there? I’m gonna eat the next thing that pops out of its ass.”

  Think about it.

  The farmer returned with the eggs and said, “That’ll be a dollar and a half.”

  What a deal. A dozen eggs, a crotch sniff, and a shoe shine all for a buck fifty!

  Contented, revitalized, and rejuvenated, with eggs in hand, we headed toward home.

  CHAPTER 21

  On Monday morning after our exciting weekend in Branson, I was summoned into Captain Short’s office.

  “Have a seat, Walt,” he said. “I have something I want to discuss with you. This past weekend there was an executive committee meeting attended by the mayor, the police commissioner, the chief, and the commanding officers of the various divisions.”

  “Wow! Must have been an important topic,” I said.

  “Walt, the topic was you.”

  Oh crap! “Just let me ex—”

  “Don’t say anything. Just listen. While your methods have been somewhat unorthodox and in some cases not quite in accordance with standard police procedure, you and Ox have compiled quite an arrest record. In a relatively short period of time you’ve collared two muggers, a drug dealer, and the worst serial killer the city has seen in fifty years. And you’re not even an officer—yet.”

  Yet? I thought. What the heck does that mean? But I kept my mouth shut.

  “Sometimes bureaucracy has a way of instituting hard and fast rules, and over time the purpose and validity of those rules is lost, but they continue to be perpetuated because that’s just the way we’ve always done it. Sometimes we have to take a step back and reexamine our priorities.

  “I’m sure there was a time and a place where admittance rules regarding height, weight, and age were valid. But we live in a different day. We came to realize that your collars were not made in spite of your age but because of your age and past experience. You were able to bring something to the table that none of our regular officers possessed. You have helped open our eyes to new possibilities.

  “Having reviewed our options, the executive committee has drafted a resolution that will be presented at the next city council meeting, which will eliminate age and physical requirements for officer candidacy. Division commanders will be able to accept or reject candidates based on background and experience.

  “Should this resolution pass, and I think it will, the executive committee would like to offer you a position on the force.”

  Dumbfounded, I sat there like an imbecile with a silly grin on my face.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, smiling. “And there’s more. You can’t be the only senior out there who thinks he’s Hopalong Cassidy. There must be others who will want to come forward when the news is made public. What we need is someone who has been there and done that, who can help these old guys and gals become oriented into the system. After orientation they will partner with a younger officer like you have been with Ox. We would like you to be that someone.

  “Plans are underway to create a new squad, the City Retiree Action Patrol. What do you say?”

  What could I say but yes!

  I was so elated. I hurried to the locker room to get my gear and came face to face with Murdock.

  He and a dozen other officers were at their lockers preparing for their shift. Murdock grabbed me by the collar and squeezed. “Think you’re pretty hot stuff, don’t you, old man?” He snarled. “You may be hot shit now, but you’re gonna get what’s coming to ya. Mark my words.”

  “Let him go, Murdock.” We both looked, and a dozen officers had gathered around us. Dooley, a young officer, spoke up. “A man’s actions speak louder than his words. And guess what, Murdock? This old gentleman’s been speaking a hell of a lot louder than you lately. How about you lay off and we’ll all just go about our business, or we can do it another way.”

  Murdock looked around the room for support. Finding none, he let me go and stalked out of the room. One by one the officers shook my hand. “Nice collar,” they said. I remembered something the professor told me once: “Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practices it will have neighbors.”

  Lady Justice and I live in a great neighborhood.

  The day flew by, and everyone I shared the news with was delighted.

  Ox gave me a big hug and said, “I’m mighty proud of you, partner.”

  Mary said, “Great, maybe you can crack the whip on some of these scumbags around here.”

  The Professor said, “It is better to light one candle than to curse the darkness.”

  Willie said, “Cool, man, a real cop. If I accidentally get my butt throwed in jail, you get me out, right?”

  I didn’t think so.

  Maggie rolled her eyes and smiling coyly said, “Oh, my hero!”

  Now that’s got some real possibilities.

  The resolution passed the city council, and a date was set for my induction and the initiation of the City Retiree Action Patrol.

  On the day of my induction, I sat on the podium listening to the politicians pontificate and looked out into the audience. There, right in front of me, were all the people I cared about. I looked at the smiles lighting their faces, and my heart was
filled with joy.

  As a boy, I was awed by my heroes, and like Superman, I dreamed a boy’s dream of fighting the good battle for truth and justice. That dream, while dormant, never died, and there I was, sixty years later, and that dream had become a reality.

  My name is Walter Williams, and that’s how I became a cop.

  Only after all the articles were published in the newspapers and all the forms and brochures had been printed did someone discover to their horror that the acronym for the City Retiree Action Patrol was C.R.A.P.! But there it was and it was my baby!

  CHAPTER 22

  Once all the hooplas and attaboys were over with, it was time to get down to business.

  Administrative guidelines and a step-by-step induction procedure had to be developed and submitted to the executive committee for approval.

  In real estate, the volume of paperwork is so staggering that every time we sold a house we killed a tree. By the time everything had been submitted for the City Retiree Action Patrol, we had wiped out a forest.

  In the end, the procedure was fairly simple. Captain Short was put in charge of the group since I had originated under his command and since he so wholeheartedly supported the program.

  It was my responsibility to review any applications that were submitted, and if they passed my muster, the captain reviewed them again.

  Any applicants that passed both reviews were then subjected to the same three qualifying procedures that I had to pass, a written exam, a physical, and the oral review board.

  Application requirements were fairly simple. The applicant must be retired from other full-time employment, have no criminal record other than traffic violations, and no drug or alcohol abuse.

  A press release announced the initiation of the program, and the public relations office received a flood of inquiries from bored and lonely seniors looking for something to spice up their lives. Once they discovered that the program involved more than just being a street crossing guard or Officer Friendly, the majority backed away.