Not Jaywalking...

Okay, this is too good not to publish. 

Tonight, post show, we all decided to head over to the one and only bar in this one horse town that is still open, which also happens to be directly across the street from the theatre, and kiddy-corner to our hotel.  There is a traffic light at the intersection, but at this time of night, cars are few and far between.  Now, we're in small town southern USA, on a Tuesday night, so there isn't much else going on in town.  Bar rail shots are dirt cheap and bottles are cheaper...the cast and crew are having a good time, blowing off some steam after a tough travel day and our first double show day in a while.  I have a few, and as the responsible adult, who still has show reports to write, I decided to call it a night well before the stroke of midnight.  I literally walk out the front door of the bar, turn towards the hotel (which, remember, is kiddycorner), check that the road is not only clear but in fact deserted,  and start to cut across the intersection, on the most direct path to the hotel.  No sooner had I made it three steps out into the intersection than a car became visible headed towards me, so, judging the distance to be too close for comfort, I hopped back up onto the sidewalk, continuing to cross the street with the light, in the accepted manner.  Besides, if television has taught me anything, it is that some areas of the states take Jaywalking very seriously.

Ofcourse, the car turns out to be a local police cruiser that slows down and pulls to the side of the road just through the intersection.  There is no crosswalk signs at this particular intersection, so I wait for the light to change, giving me the right of way.  As it does the young female officer steps from the car and calls me over.  One hand in her flashlight, one hand on her holstered sidearm.  She immediately asks for my ID, and wants to know where I'm coming from.  I very honestly tell her that I'm coming from "the bar" (the angle is now wrong for me to read the sign at this time of night, and I don't know what the hell it is called, I have only been in been here in town for exactly 1 day, all of which I spent in the theatre, but I keep that fact to myself for now).  Not impressed that I don't know where I've come from, or at least the name of the establishment, she has me put my hands on the car while she radio's HQ to see if they have the technology required to run my ID.  She literally asks if they can run Canadian ID...While she converses with HQ, I stand with my hands on the cruiser, trying desperately not to die laughing at this whole situation.

Finished with HQ, She wants to know where I was headed.  I explain that I am staying at the hotel, which is now literally steps away.  She wants to know how much I've had to drink.  I tell her the truth.  She doubts me, this in fact seems to confirm her suspicions.  She starts to tell me that she saw me weaving into the street, obviously jumping to the conclusion that I am impaired so I very politely interrupt her to explain that I was in the middle of choosing to Jaywalk across the street when I saw a car, and thought better of it. I am calm, coherent and far from inebriated, and she is slowing starting to catch on...but she has already called in my ID, so we're stuck here...

So I'm still standing with my hands on the back quarter panel of her cruiser, basically in the middle of the intersection, and I ask if I could stand on the sidewalk, out of the street.  She grudgingly agrees, which seems to ratchet the tension down a few notches.  Now we're getting chatty.  She wants to know if I am here with anyone, I explain that I am with the tour, and that most of the group are still at the bar.  She wants to know how long we're in town, and how the show sold.  Suddenly it becomes very apparent that she knows that she has no reason to detain me, so she's just making conversation to pass time while she waits for HQ to run my ID, and confirm what I have told her, that I am not in fact a fugitive from justice.  It has now been at least 15 minutes, and I am almost surprised that no one from the cast has come out of the bar to discover my predicament.  She just keeps making light banter.  Some people might even suggest that she was flirting with me at this point, but I am not even going to speculate on that.  I just kept up my polite, honest, mildly bemused Canadian routine, and eventually once her dispatcher confirmed my ID, she handed me back my license and jokingly drawled "I bet you hate this small town now".  After telling me I was free to continue on my travels, she then told me that while it was good that I decided not to Jaywalk, but it was my "disorderly travels" that caught her attention.  I apologized (I'm Canadian, it is what we do) for having wasted her time with such an insignificant incident, and before she hopped back into her cruiser, she admitted that it was the most excitement she had had all night. 

I laughed the whole way back to my room.

Only in America. 

     

An Atypical Friday Night

So I'm out doing some running around last night before work, trying to get a little Christmas shopping done at the Sunrise Center in Kitchener when I come across a fender bender at a stop light at the Canadian Tire parking lot.  Two smaller imported cars, both filled with 20 something men out bombing around on a Friday night.  By the time I drive past the scene they are all standing around their smashed up civics, shaking their heads.   Seeing this, I think to myself that the impending holiday season seems to have instilled all of the drivers and shoppers around me with a frantic sense of mindless hustle and bustle. People seem driven by a single-minded self centered attitude that has them so focused on their current goal of getting the perfect tree, or obtaining that Ipad, X box, stocking stuffer, or whatever, that will symbolize the completion and attainment of all of their current earthly goals.  As I ponder this, the light turns green and I continue on my merry way, off to work for the night.
Not ten minutes later I'm zipping down highway 85 in the left hand lane (observing the posted speed limit of 90, of course) headed for the Schoolhouse Theatre, and the wonderful world of Elvis, that fills my days lately. Its about 6:10 pm, right at the end of rush hour, because its now December, its getting dark, but traffic is moving well.  Glancing at the clock I realize that I am going to be early for work, when I glance up into my rearview mirror to notice a set of headlights about 200 yards behind me.  Thinking I should get over so the car behind me can pass, I check my mirror again to make sure I am clear, but there is a transport in the right lane, so I check my rearview again, only to discover that in the intervening 2 seconds the car behind me is now right behind me, his headlights no longer visible.  Just as I start to wonder what the hell he is doing, he slams into the back of my Ford Escape.  I am thrown back into my seat, and I feel my vehicle tilt back to front.  I immediately throw on the brakes and, remembering the adjacent transport attempt to wrestle my vehicle onto the left shoulder.  So much for getting to work early.
Once I'm off onto the shoulder of the highway, I'm hoping the damage isn't too bad.  Cars are screaming by, horns blazing.  Their headlights bluring the whole scene into a cacophony of light and sound. 
On first inspection I feel pretty good, considering. Adrenaline has obviously kicked in as everything seems to be moving at half speed around me.  I realize that I am also noticing minute details that wouldn't normally leave an impression.  Wondering if the other driver even bothered to stop.  Thinking I need to call work and let them know I am going to be late.  I should call Brenna and let her know what happened...all of these thoughts go through my mind before I have even reached for the door handle.
The other driver has indeed also pulled over and he meets me at the back of my car as I begin to inspect the damage.  His headlights are still on, so I can see my vehicle, but his car is hidden behind the glare.  I take note of his appearance, mid 50's early 60's. Big mustache.  "Are you okay?" He asks this twice as I methodically begin to inspect the back end of my SUV.  I tell him that I am fine, and ask him if he is okay.  "Oh... Fine."  He says.  There is some minor damage to my rear bumper, what I assume are blown anti-crash pads dangle from my under-carriage and the trim is pushed out on the driver side.  Seeing this, the other driver says, "Oh you're fine, I'll just give you some cash, no cops".  Alarm bells go off in my head. "Oh, there will be none of that" I respond in a calm, level voice, continuing my cursory inspection.  "What? You're fine! No cops!"."How's your car?" I ask.  "Oh Fucked! I'm fucked!  No cops, no insurance, I'll just get you some cash."  Alarm bells in my head are now almost deafening.  Leaving him standing by my car,  I wander back towards his car to inspect the damage for myself.
Squinting through the glare of his headlights I can see that his initial assessment isn't far off.  His front bumper and grill are gone. His hood is folded like a piece of oragami, almost 3/4 of the way to his windshield.  It's pretty obvious that he actually went right under the back end of my Escape at a pretty high rate of speed.  My guess would be at least 140 because of how quickly he closed the distance between us.  He's standing right beside me.  Now that we're inside the radius of his headlights I start to notice a few familiar symptoms. Symptom 1: His eyes are glassy.  "Pretty bad" I exclaim.  "I'm fucked!, no cops, I'll just give you some cash."  Sympton 2: He's repeating himself.
I wander back towards my vehicle and dial 911.  "What are you doing?"  He has followed me back to my car, and is standing beside me again. "I'm just making a phone call, can you get me your insurance information?"  He wanders back towards his car.  Symptom 3:  He is staggering and unable to walk a straight line.  "Yes, hello, I would like to report an accident.  I have been rear ended on Highway 85 in Waterloo.  I think the other driver may be impaired."  The dispatcher asks if I have the other drivers plate info, so I wander back to the rear of his vehicle
and dictate the plate number over the phone.  I also notice that the driver side door handle is held on with a zip tie.  This car has seen better days.  It is a VW EOS - not a model I am familiar with.  The dispatcher tells me to sit tight, as an officer is on the way.  As I make my way back towards my car, he rolls down his window and asks if I have a pen.  I tell him I don't, as I don't.  He tells me he's just going to pull ahead a bit and then drives off into traffic.  Not too bright.
A tow truck has now pulled up behind me.  He has just driven over the shattered remains of the other drivers front bumper.  I explain to him that my vehicle is drivable.  When he learns that the other driver has just driven away he asks if the police know this.  I call 911 again and explain to a second dispatcher that having already reported the accident, I am calling to update them with the information that the other driver has left the scene.  He tells me to wait in my car for the officer to arrive.  The tow truck driver tells me that he is going to walk back to where he hit the debris and try and clear it from the highway.  He's concerned that he may have damaged his truck and now wants to wait for the officer to log his complaint.
Climbing back into my vehicle, I take the opportunity to call Kelly at the Schoolhouse and Brenna and bring them up to speed.
When the officer arrives, she inspects my vehicle and asks about the other driver.  Turns out she was notified by the 2nd dispatcher, and doesn't have the plate info I gave to the first dispatcher.  I also mention my suspicion that the other driver was impaired.  While I fill out my accident statement form she attempts to locate the dispatcher who fielded my first call.  As I return the completed form, she asks me to take a look at a photo that she has pulled up on her fancy in-dash computer.  Without a doubt it is the second driver.  The mustache is a dead give away.  The officer is almost giddy!  Leaving the scene, possibly impaired, and they have his plate number.  Served up on a silver platter for the holidays.
The officer explains that local police as well as the detachment from his home town (he's not a local) are now on the lookout for him.  They will have to catch him before he gets home in order to verify if he is indeed impaired.  She promises to keep me up to date on what happens, and as an afterthought, asks me if I am injured.  "Not that I am aware of at this time."  A pretty standard response from me.  Adrenaline has kicked in, and I am feeling really good, chipper even, but time will tell.  I thank the officer for her help, hop back into my car and continue my trip to work. 
I arrive in time to double check the preset and give the half hour call.  All of this has taken just over an hour. 
Fast forward 6 days.  I have been diagnosed with whiplash, am very stiff and sore, have had all kinds of complications with my insurance because I didn't get his information, have talked with the OPP detachment multiple times trying to obtain a copy of the accident report for insurance purposes and have yet to even start the process of getting my vehicle repaired, when I receive a voice mail from the responding officer.
It's short, its to the point:  Yes, they caught him.  Yes, he was impaired.  Yes he has been charged with 3 separate offences: Reckless driving, leaving the scene, and impaired.  Merry Christmas asshole.

The moral of the story:

Karma's a bitch.