Let's Get This Wreck on the Road!
NOTE: ALL THIS NONSENSE IS COPYRIGHTED 2005.VIOLATIONS OF THIS COPYRIGHT WILL RESULT IN FUMING ANGER.
Now the story starts.
Raymond Tate sat in his parked car trying to keep his eyes open. The night's heat made it difficult to keep aware, and impossible to sleep. It seemed to drain everything out of him and yet make it difficult to relax. It was as if he had been made into a zombie; eyes open and unseeing. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee hoping that the caffeine would give him a jolt and knowing that it wouldn't.
The street was quiet except for the usual night sounds; a pair of cats facing off in a nearby ally, the occasional car driving down the street, a front door opening and closing releasing the sound of an inane late night television program. The dashboard clock of his car read 1:15 AM. Tate had been up since 6:00 AM the previous morning. Julie London's smoky voice came quietly from the speakers from the car singing "Cry Me A River." He turned up the volume of the radio slightly, enjoying the smoky voice and the visual memory of the singer.
Before the song ended he felt what he had been waiting for. He felt the sound waves pounding against his car before he heard them. Then the waves of bass slowly became audible, getting louder and louder.
Looking into his side view mirror he saw a pair of headlights, high off the ground, about 200 feet behind him. He started his car and waited as the subwoofers blasted out at anything that couldn't escape the sonic assault that, for Tate, had become all too common. Tate waited until the rolling boom box slowly processed along the street. We waited until it was within 30 feet of him. Then he turned on his headlights and pulled his car sharply from the curb to block the street, effectively closing the off the strip of asphalt. The other car, a Lincoln Navigator, black with spinner wheels and smoked windows, jerked to a stop and honked a horn that could barely be heard above the throbbing hip hop -- "F***in' b**ch! F***in' b**ch! You'll s**k my d**k and and love it. You f***in' b**ch!"
Tate jumped out of his car and pulled open the driver's side door of the Navigator before the driver could say anything that Tate could hear. He reached in and turned off the ignition. The engine died but the stereo continued its blasting.
"Turn it off! Now!" Tate shouted.
The driver, angry, confused and not a little frightened by the middle aged man, complied. Tate pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shined it on the driver. A young white man about 20 years old. His head was shaved and he wore, despite the heat of the night, a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood down, and a pair of baggy blue denim carpenter's pants.
"Out of the car!" Tate ordered.
"Who the fuck are you?" the driver demanded after recovering some of his courage now that he saw that his assailant's hair was more grey than black and that he was wearing an Angels tee-shirt, chinos and a pair of rubber sandals.
Tate pulled his wallet from his back hip pocket and opened it so the driver could see the detective's badge and photo identification card.
"Lieutenant Raymond Tate. Sycamore Grove P.D. The real question is, who are you?"
The driver, his face going suddenly from defiant to submissive, got out of the Navigator. He was several inches tallers than Tate. Perhaps 6'2' or 6'3', and gave the appearance of being well-fed and well-muscled. A white boy trying to look "down".
"Let's see your driving license," Tate demanded.
The driver handed the card to Tate. Joshua Zimmerman. Age 19. A resident of Sycamore Grove.
"Do you know why you're being stopped?" Tate asked.
"No." A studied casual shrug.
"Are you aware that there is an ordinance in this city that makes the playing of 'music' that can be heard more than fifty feet from a vehicle a fineable offense?"
"No." Another shrug.
"You should if you're who I think you are. You're Cheryl Zimmerman's boy, aren't you?"
" Yes, I am."
"Your mommy wrote the ordinance three or four years ago."
The young man shrugged as if Tate were explaining Saint Bartholomew's Massacre to him.
"I'm sure that Cheryl would be interested in this conversation. It won't look good if it comes out that her own dear son ignores the very law that she campaigned on to get elected to the city council."
Another shrug. The kid's lack of concern didn't surprise Tate. He'd heard about him; high school football hero recruited to play quarterback for USC. Sycamore Grove's contribution to the NCAA and perhaps the NFL. The kid probably felt that nothing could touch him. He was a football hero. He bedded cheer leaders. His coach told him that he was the Second Coming. He was golden.
"I want you to listen to me and listen good. If you want to play walking drum you're not going to do it in Sycamore Grove. Every patrol officer in the city will be looking out for your Navigator. And if they hear anything louder than a harpsichrod coming from this heap they'll ticket you. Each ticket carries a $250.00 fine and those tickets will build up fast even if your mommy is a councilman.
"I've been putting up with your noise every night for three weeks. I'm not going to bear it anymore. The people in this neighborhood aren't going to bear it anymore. Do you get it, Mr. Football Hero?"
"Yes sir." Yet another shrug.
"And if I see you or hear your rig again on this street or this neighborhood again I may suspect you're up to no good since you live on the other side of town and have no reason to come through here. I may have to search your vehicle. I may not find anything, but I don't think you'd like to see your sub-woofers and amplifiers smashed on the street."
"That would be harassment."
"No. Actually it would be thorough, pro-active police work. What you've been doing is harassment by blasting working people out of bed at one thirty in the morning.
"Now shove off. I don't want to ever see you again. And I don't want to ever have to listen to your crap again. Get it?"
"Your car's in my way." The boy seemed to revel in a momentary triumph.
"Do a turn about, boy. Go back the way you came."
Joshua Zimmerman got back into his SUV and managed to turn the beast around after a few tries. Tate watched and listened until the car turned left at the end of the block.
Now the story starts.
Raymond Tate sat in his parked car trying to keep his eyes open. The night's heat made it difficult to keep aware, and impossible to sleep. It seemed to drain everything out of him and yet make it difficult to relax. It was as if he had been made into a zombie; eyes open and unseeing. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee hoping that the caffeine would give him a jolt and knowing that it wouldn't.
The street was quiet except for the usual night sounds; a pair of cats facing off in a nearby ally, the occasional car driving down the street, a front door opening and closing releasing the sound of an inane late night television program. The dashboard clock of his car read 1:15 AM. Tate had been up since 6:00 AM the previous morning. Julie London's smoky voice came quietly from the speakers from the car singing "Cry Me A River." He turned up the volume of the radio slightly, enjoying the smoky voice and the visual memory of the singer.
Before the song ended he felt what he had been waiting for. He felt the sound waves pounding against his car before he heard them. Then the waves of bass slowly became audible, getting louder and louder.
Looking into his side view mirror he saw a pair of headlights, high off the ground, about 200 feet behind him. He started his car and waited as the subwoofers blasted out at anything that couldn't escape the sonic assault that, for Tate, had become all too common. Tate waited until the rolling boom box slowly processed along the street. We waited until it was within 30 feet of him. Then he turned on his headlights and pulled his car sharply from the curb to block the street, effectively closing the off the strip of asphalt. The other car, a Lincoln Navigator, black with spinner wheels and smoked windows, jerked to a stop and honked a horn that could barely be heard above the throbbing hip hop -- "F***in' b**ch! F***in' b**ch! You'll s**k my d**k and and love it. You f***in' b**ch!"
Tate jumped out of his car and pulled open the driver's side door of the Navigator before the driver could say anything that Tate could hear. He reached in and turned off the ignition. The engine died but the stereo continued its blasting.
"Turn it off! Now!" Tate shouted.
The driver, angry, confused and not a little frightened by the middle aged man, complied. Tate pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shined it on the driver. A young white man about 20 years old. His head was shaved and he wore, despite the heat of the night, a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood down, and a pair of baggy blue denim carpenter's pants.
"Out of the car!" Tate ordered.
"Who the fuck are you?" the driver demanded after recovering some of his courage now that he saw that his assailant's hair was more grey than black and that he was wearing an Angels tee-shirt, chinos and a pair of rubber sandals.
Tate pulled his wallet from his back hip pocket and opened it so the driver could see the detective's badge and photo identification card.
"Lieutenant Raymond Tate. Sycamore Grove P.D. The real question is, who are you?"
The driver, his face going suddenly from defiant to submissive, got out of the Navigator. He was several inches tallers than Tate. Perhaps 6'2' or 6'3', and gave the appearance of being well-fed and well-muscled. A white boy trying to look "down".
"Let's see your driving license," Tate demanded.
The driver handed the card to Tate. Joshua Zimmerman. Age 19. A resident of Sycamore Grove.
"Do you know why you're being stopped?" Tate asked.
"No." A studied casual shrug.
"Are you aware that there is an ordinance in this city that makes the playing of 'music' that can be heard more than fifty feet from a vehicle a fineable offense?"
"No." Another shrug.
"You should if you're who I think you are. You're Cheryl Zimmerman's boy, aren't you?"
" Yes, I am."
"Your mommy wrote the ordinance three or four years ago."
The young man shrugged as if Tate were explaining Saint Bartholomew's Massacre to him.
"I'm sure that Cheryl would be interested in this conversation. It won't look good if it comes out that her own dear son ignores the very law that she campaigned on to get elected to the city council."
Another shrug. The kid's lack of concern didn't surprise Tate. He'd heard about him; high school football hero recruited to play quarterback for USC. Sycamore Grove's contribution to the NCAA and perhaps the NFL. The kid probably felt that nothing could touch him. He was a football hero. He bedded cheer leaders. His coach told him that he was the Second Coming. He was golden.
"I want you to listen to me and listen good. If you want to play walking drum you're not going to do it in Sycamore Grove. Every patrol officer in the city will be looking out for your Navigator. And if they hear anything louder than a harpsichrod coming from this heap they'll ticket you. Each ticket carries a $250.00 fine and those tickets will build up fast even if your mommy is a councilman.
"I've been putting up with your noise every night for three weeks. I'm not going to bear it anymore. The people in this neighborhood aren't going to bear it anymore. Do you get it, Mr. Football Hero?"
"Yes sir." Yet another shrug.
"And if I see you or hear your rig again on this street or this neighborhood again I may suspect you're up to no good since you live on the other side of town and have no reason to come through here. I may have to search your vehicle. I may not find anything, but I don't think you'd like to see your sub-woofers and amplifiers smashed on the street."
"That would be harassment."
"No. Actually it would be thorough, pro-active police work. What you've been doing is harassment by blasting working people out of bed at one thirty in the morning.
"Now shove off. I don't want to ever see you again. And I don't want to ever have to listen to your crap again. Get it?"
"Your car's in my way." The boy seemed to revel in a momentary triumph.
"Do a turn about, boy. Go back the way you came."
Joshua Zimmerman got back into his SUV and managed to turn the beast around after a few tries. Tate watched and listened until the car turned left at the end of the block.
posted by Hitz at 5:27 PM
1 Comments:
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