Friday, June 10, 2005
The Police Report
THE POLICE REPORT
by
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
The deputy leaned forward and shot a stream of brown tobacco juice directly bull's-eye into the middle of my clean kitchen sink. It splashed and splattered all over the sink and counter spraying onto the white Sugar canister nearby.
"Horace Grimsby!" 1 said tightly, "I will thank you not to use my kitchen as a
spittoon!" 1 wet the sponge and began to clean up the mess, grimacing as 1 did so. "Now, you just get rid of that!"
"Yes, Ma'am." Horace got up, hitched up his belt so you couldn't see the elastic of his boxer shorts anymore, and sauntered to the screen door. He looked around for a minute, and
then spat his wad into my flowerbed.
"Horace!"
"Well," he exclaimed defensively, "Lily says its good for the roses."
1 sighed. "They aren't roses; they're Sweet William. And tobacco juice is definitely not
good for them!"
"Ah, Miz Collins, all flowers is roses to me."
1 sighed again. Of all the people in God's green earth 1 did not want to have to tell my
story to, it was Horace Grimsby. Horace was positively the most uncouth man 1 had ever laid eyes on, and 1 couldn't imagine how John Parker (that's the sherift) kept him on. Pity, maybe. Even so, Horace is who came in response to my call, so Horace is whom I got.
I'd had Horace in my seventh grade class some years ago, and he wasn't any better then than he was now. Horace was a slob in high school, and it looked like time hadn't done him an) favors in that regard.
Why, 1 remember once, when 1 spoke to him about how low he was wearing his pants, he leered at me and said, "All the better to moon you with, my dear!" Then he dropped his drawers right there in front of God and everybody, and shook his frogbelly white butt at me!
Well, you can be sure 1 snatched him up by his ear, pants flopping around his knees, marched him directly into the Principal's office and got that boy suspended for a week!
And now Horace was leaning back on the two back legs of my kitchen chair, minus the wad of tobacco that seemed to have permanently disfigured his face, and got out his pad and pel Sunset was just golding up the sky outside, and the neighborhood was quiet. "Now, Miz Collins what seems to be the trouble?"
"First off," 1 started, but he intercepted my reproach and bam! the two front legs of my
chair came down and Horace was sitting up proper. "That's better."
"Yes'm?"
Of all the dadblammed idiots to have to tell this to. 1 was tempted to just say, never mind it's not important, and ask John Parker to send me somebody else. But Charlie Scott was worse if that were possible, than Horace. And that new little girl, Maybelle Manners, was just a little too young and green to be of much help here.
"Well, Horace," 1 began, "it's like this."
Pen poised, Horace looked up expectantly. His mouth worked like he still had a wad in
it, and for a moment 1 was fascinated watching his jaw worry something that wasn't there. You're procrastinating.
"Okay, here's what happened." 1 took a deep breath. "I saw a man."
"Yes'm?"
Lordy, was he going to make me spell it out for him?
"I saw a man, I said."
Horace looked puzzled. "And where was the man, Ma'am?"
I lowered my voice. "In my bedroom."
"In your bedroom, Ma'am?" Horace sounded as if that were the most unlikely place for a man to be found, and in that he was one hundred percent correct. I had not had a man in my
bedroom in my entire life, and at sixty-seven I certainly was NOT going to start now!
"And what was the man doing in your bedroom, Miz Collins?"
"Sleeping. "
"Sleeping?" Now Horace really was puzzled. "Why was a man sleeping in your
bedroom, Miz Collins? You all got comp'ny?"
"If he were company, I would not have called you, now would I?" The man really was
an idiot.
"Now, Miz Collins, ain't no call to talk to me like that." Horace sounded offended. "I'm just trying to find out why you called the po-lice." He made the word into two very separate syllables, and I wondered at my skills as an English teacher all those years ago.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I was just so rattled I could hardly think, and having to deal with Horace didn't make things any easier. His jaw worked the nonexistent wad oftobacco
and his eyes were bright with curiosity.
"And where is the man now, Miz Collins?"
"Well, unless he's moved, he's still there."
Horace jumped up out of the chair like a snake had crawled out ftom under the reftigerator. "What?!" He reached for his gun and made for the door. "You mean we been sitting here talking about this stranger and he's still in the house? Land sakes, Miz Collins, are you crazy?"
"Oh, its okay, Horace, he's not going anywhere." I led the way into my bedroom, where no man had ever entered, until today anyway. Well, first time for everything, I thought. Might a well have two men in the bedroom as one.
My bedroom looks pretty much like you'd expect a sixty-seven year old woman's bedroom to look. The furniture is dark and a little too large for the room. Have my dresser against one wall, and the vanity with mirror against another. The closet door was open, and I closed it as I walked by. No sense in letting Horace Grimsby see what didn't pertain to him.
I have a nice bed. It matches the dresser and the vanity and once belonged to my own mother, God rest her soul. Normally, this time of a morning, the bed would be made and my coverlet would be its crowning glory, hand-crocheted by yours truly one cold winter a few years back.
Instead of seeing my handiwork, though, what you saw when you entered was a smallish, stoutish, angry and scared young man, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the middle of my bed. What I had told Horace was true enough, though. He wasn't going anywhere.
The sash of my bathrobe held his ankles together; his wrists were behind his back and snugged up tight by a belt to an old dress I don't wear anymore. Once I had him trussed, I got some rope ftom the garage and attached him to each corner of the bedpost, so the young man lie squirming in the middle of the bed, looking for all the world like some heathen sacrifice.
I had taped his mouth shut with duct tape, and his eyes looked huge and ftightened,
running between Horace and I like he was watching a tennis match.
"Now, young man," Horace said, walking slowly towards him. "I'm just going to take
this tape off your mouth and you can tell us what you're doing in Miz Collins' bedroom, ok?"
Well, the only way to get tape off is to give it a yank, and that's what Horace did, which
sent a stream of profanity cascading into my bedroom like an unholy waterfall.
"That's why I taped his mouth shut in the first place," I eXplained to Horace.
"Settle down, settle down!" Horace told the young man, who seemed to be running out
of steam. "Just tell us who you are and what you're doing in here."
"Names Buck Johnson," he began. "I live down McKinleyville, 'cross the holler. Come
over to see my girlftiend."
"And how did you end up in Miz Collins' bedroom?"
Buck looked a bit sheepish, as well he should. "Well, I had a bit to drink afore I got hen
you see, and I thought I was in Matilda's house. She said she'd leave the back door open for m( and I should wait for her in her bedroom. So that's what I did. Except I guess I didn't get the
right house, did IT'
"Matilda?" I asked. "Are you talking about Matilda Sawyers, the little girl who lives
next door?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Buck said. "We's gonna get married when we gets outta high school,
Ma'am. Taint's like we's doing anything wrong."
"You most certainly are!" I snapped. "Don't you have any upbringing at all?" I turned to Horace. "Horace, you untie this little heathen while I go next door and talk to Matilda's mother. "
Horace went about the business of getting all the knots out of the various ties, sashes an, ropes that bound Buck Johnson, and I made my way through the house, down thy steps, and across the lawn.
It was a fruitful meeting, since not one week later, I was asked for the honor of my presence at the wedding of one Herbert Samuel Johnson and Matilda Alice Sawyers; and very much enjoyed seeing the young couple get hitched, Mr. Sawyers' shotgun draped over one arm, notwithstanding.
Horace looked downright dapper in his police uniform, and right smack dab in the middle
of the ceremony, he looked over at me and winked.
Cheeky boy! Some things, I reckon, never change.
by
Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking
The deputy leaned forward and shot a stream of brown tobacco juice directly bull's-eye into the middle of my clean kitchen sink. It splashed and splattered all over the sink and counter spraying onto the white Sugar canister nearby.
"Horace Grimsby!" 1 said tightly, "I will thank you not to use my kitchen as a
spittoon!" 1 wet the sponge and began to clean up the mess, grimacing as 1 did so. "Now, you just get rid of that!"
"Yes, Ma'am." Horace got up, hitched up his belt so you couldn't see the elastic of his boxer shorts anymore, and sauntered to the screen door. He looked around for a minute, and
then spat his wad into my flowerbed.
"Horace!"
"Well," he exclaimed defensively, "Lily says its good for the roses."
1 sighed. "They aren't roses; they're Sweet William. And tobacco juice is definitely not
good for them!"
"Ah, Miz Collins, all flowers is roses to me."
1 sighed again. Of all the people in God's green earth 1 did not want to have to tell my
story to, it was Horace Grimsby. Horace was positively the most uncouth man 1 had ever laid eyes on, and 1 couldn't imagine how John Parker (that's the sherift) kept him on. Pity, maybe. Even so, Horace is who came in response to my call, so Horace is whom I got.
I'd had Horace in my seventh grade class some years ago, and he wasn't any better then than he was now. Horace was a slob in high school, and it looked like time hadn't done him an) favors in that regard.
Why, 1 remember once, when 1 spoke to him about how low he was wearing his pants, he leered at me and said, "All the better to moon you with, my dear!" Then he dropped his drawers right there in front of God and everybody, and shook his frogbelly white butt at me!
Well, you can be sure 1 snatched him up by his ear, pants flopping around his knees, marched him directly into the Principal's office and got that boy suspended for a week!
And now Horace was leaning back on the two back legs of my kitchen chair, minus the wad of tobacco that seemed to have permanently disfigured his face, and got out his pad and pel Sunset was just golding up the sky outside, and the neighborhood was quiet. "Now, Miz Collins what seems to be the trouble?"
"First off," 1 started, but he intercepted my reproach and bam! the two front legs of my
chair came down and Horace was sitting up proper. "That's better."
"Yes'm?"
Of all the dadblammed idiots to have to tell this to. 1 was tempted to just say, never mind it's not important, and ask John Parker to send me somebody else. But Charlie Scott was worse if that were possible, than Horace. And that new little girl, Maybelle Manners, was just a little too young and green to be of much help here.
"Well, Horace," 1 began, "it's like this."
Pen poised, Horace looked up expectantly. His mouth worked like he still had a wad in
it, and for a moment 1 was fascinated watching his jaw worry something that wasn't there. You're procrastinating.
"Okay, here's what happened." 1 took a deep breath. "I saw a man."
"Yes'm?"
Lordy, was he going to make me spell it out for him?
"I saw a man, I said."
Horace looked puzzled. "And where was the man, Ma'am?"
I lowered my voice. "In my bedroom."
"In your bedroom, Ma'am?" Horace sounded as if that were the most unlikely place for a man to be found, and in that he was one hundred percent correct. I had not had a man in my
bedroom in my entire life, and at sixty-seven I certainly was NOT going to start now!
"And what was the man doing in your bedroom, Miz Collins?"
"Sleeping. "
"Sleeping?" Now Horace really was puzzled. "Why was a man sleeping in your
bedroom, Miz Collins? You all got comp'ny?"
"If he were company, I would not have called you, now would I?" The man really was
an idiot.
"Now, Miz Collins, ain't no call to talk to me like that." Horace sounded offended. "I'm just trying to find out why you called the po-lice." He made the word into two very separate syllables, and I wondered at my skills as an English teacher all those years ago.
"I'm sorry," I said, and I was. I was just so rattled I could hardly think, and having to deal with Horace didn't make things any easier. His jaw worked the nonexistent wad oftobacco
and his eyes were bright with curiosity.
"And where is the man now, Miz Collins?"
"Well, unless he's moved, he's still there."
Horace jumped up out of the chair like a snake had crawled out ftom under the reftigerator. "What?!" He reached for his gun and made for the door. "You mean we been sitting here talking about this stranger and he's still in the house? Land sakes, Miz Collins, are you crazy?"
"Oh, its okay, Horace, he's not going anywhere." I led the way into my bedroom, where no man had ever entered, until today anyway. Well, first time for everything, I thought. Might a well have two men in the bedroom as one.
My bedroom looks pretty much like you'd expect a sixty-seven year old woman's bedroom to look. The furniture is dark and a little too large for the room. Have my dresser against one wall, and the vanity with mirror against another. The closet door was open, and I closed it as I walked by. No sense in letting Horace Grimsby see what didn't pertain to him.
I have a nice bed. It matches the dresser and the vanity and once belonged to my own mother, God rest her soul. Normally, this time of a morning, the bed would be made and my coverlet would be its crowning glory, hand-crocheted by yours truly one cold winter a few years back.
Instead of seeing my handiwork, though, what you saw when you entered was a smallish, stoutish, angry and scared young man, trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the middle of my bed. What I had told Horace was true enough, though. He wasn't going anywhere.
The sash of my bathrobe held his ankles together; his wrists were behind his back and snugged up tight by a belt to an old dress I don't wear anymore. Once I had him trussed, I got some rope ftom the garage and attached him to each corner of the bedpost, so the young man lie squirming in the middle of the bed, looking for all the world like some heathen sacrifice.
I had taped his mouth shut with duct tape, and his eyes looked huge and ftightened,
running between Horace and I like he was watching a tennis match.
"Now, young man," Horace said, walking slowly towards him. "I'm just going to take
this tape off your mouth and you can tell us what you're doing in Miz Collins' bedroom, ok?"
Well, the only way to get tape off is to give it a yank, and that's what Horace did, which
sent a stream of profanity cascading into my bedroom like an unholy waterfall.
"That's why I taped his mouth shut in the first place," I eXplained to Horace.
"Settle down, settle down!" Horace told the young man, who seemed to be running out
of steam. "Just tell us who you are and what you're doing in here."
"Names Buck Johnson," he began. "I live down McKinleyville, 'cross the holler. Come
over to see my girlftiend."
"And how did you end up in Miz Collins' bedroom?"
Buck looked a bit sheepish, as well he should. "Well, I had a bit to drink afore I got hen
you see, and I thought I was in Matilda's house. She said she'd leave the back door open for m( and I should wait for her in her bedroom. So that's what I did. Except I guess I didn't get the
right house, did IT'
"Matilda?" I asked. "Are you talking about Matilda Sawyers, the little girl who lives
next door?"
"Yes, Ma'am!" Buck said. "We's gonna get married when we gets outta high school,
Ma'am. Taint's like we's doing anything wrong."
"You most certainly are!" I snapped. "Don't you have any upbringing at all?" I turned to Horace. "Horace, you untie this little heathen while I go next door and talk to Matilda's mother. "
Horace went about the business of getting all the knots out of the various ties, sashes an, ropes that bound Buck Johnson, and I made my way through the house, down thy steps, and across the lawn.
It was a fruitful meeting, since not one week later, I was asked for the honor of my presence at the wedding of one Herbert Samuel Johnson and Matilda Alice Sawyers; and very much enjoyed seeing the young couple get hitched, Mr. Sawyers' shotgun draped over one arm, notwithstanding.
Horace looked downright dapper in his police uniform, and right smack dab in the middle
of the ceremony, he looked over at me and winked.
Cheeky boy! Some things, I reckon, never change.
# posted by Phoenix MaryGrace Hocking : 11:25 AM
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