You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
Drunken Idiots.
I’m at a truck stop just off I-40. I’m interviewing a bail bondsman who is instrumental in getting one of the TBI”s top 10 most wanted criminals to surrender himself and fly back from his hide out in Australia.
We are at the truck stop because it’s half way between here and there. It works for him and it works for me.
The facade of this grimy Gas and Go is filthy, a lower class pit stop for highway denizens with a full bladder and an addiction for expensive smokes. The front window is polluted with ads for Budweiser and Marlboro Cigarettes.
The sun is sweltering, beating down like a bright hot spot light of heat.
We move under the canopy and try and use the shade to make the interview more tolerable.
“I’m going to put some generic trees behind you,” I say focusing on the Iranian man who has spent the last 40 years of his life in this country.
While the location is convenient, the occasional big rig cycling through its gears on the road right beside us does prove to be an auditory concern.
But it’s ok, It’s tape. I can pause a few seconds between engine roar and re-ask a question. This is a story about a fugitive’s return to justice, not a complex lesson on how to chemically create napalm out of soap.
So while the trucks are tolerable, and the cigarette signs manageable, a drunken buffoon who pulls up is a concern.
A big white SUV pulls into the gas lane beside us. The truck has big knobby tires and a green canoe lashed to the roof.
A young man with no shirt and saggy pants gets out. I know this look. “Here’s another white boy wanna be gang banger.” I think to myself.
The guy has tats on his neck and his arms. He is wearing a baseball hat high on his head in that stupid way that young kids do today. The bill is flat across, like a piece of plywood sitting on the dome of his neanderthal head.
I feel like going over and bending the bill on his cap, to give it that worn look.
He starts pumping gas as members of his white trash entourage, scantily attired, begin sauntering into the truck stop store.
So the bondsman is telling me how he is about to lose $200,000 bond if he doesn’t get this fugitive back. The 82 year old man is accused of multiple counts of child rape. Instead of showing up in court, he ends up in Melbourne Australia.
The bondsman tells me how he tracks down the fugitive by finding his old lady girl friend in Missouri. He says he convinces her to spill the beans on the old man. He says she has been pocketing his social security benefits and she might go to jail for harboring a fugitive. He tells me how he calls the old timer in Melbourne, Australia telling him he is an old man and he can’t hide forever.
“Either turn yourself in or I’m coming to get you,” the bondsman says in a matter of fact way.
The old man agrees and gets on a plane and delivers himself to authorities in L.A.
This is a good story, I think to myself. The TBI press release simply said a Most Wanted Man was captured and back in custody in L.A.
It didn’t have any details, certainly nothing juicy like I am getting.
Like a mason jar hitting the bricks, shattering into a thousand pieces in a gut wrenching shriek, I hear angry cuss words billowing over the roar of traffic.
“F this. F that. Channel 5 ….” the words trail off.
The man who is a potty mouth of stupid is behind me. I look at the bail bondsman for any sign of trouble.
A life time of chasing bad asses across the globe has given him a certain equanimity.
“They’re drunk,” he says.
I continue with the interview, refusing to turn around to give the idiots the satisfaction.
A truck motors by, and I pause.
“So what did he think when you called him in Australia,” I continue.
The bondsman begins to answer, but angry, forceful, audible curse words are swallowed up by my microphones.
“F in News Man”
I close my eyes seeing bursts of angry blue and white lightning bolts.
I feel a bead of perspiration dislodge from my scalp and roll down my cheek. It feels prickly, like a cat’s tongue. It oozes slowly, like a molasses tear crying down the side of my face.
I wait a moment feeling the volcanic pressure inside me begin to swell.
I flick the moisture bead away. This lights my internal fuse.
I am the bull. I see the red cape. It’s 90 degrees and I’m steaming. I feel ferocious, percolating bursts of furry snorting out of my nose.
Perhaps because this loud mouth is making me stand in the broiling sun, I turn. Perhaps because he is drunk and I’m not, I decide to act. Perhaps because I am wearing a dress shirt and tie saturated with perspiration and he’s a bare chested buffoon with his underwear hanging out of his drawers, I stop the interview.
“Excuse me,” I say to the bail bondsman, calmly, camera still rolling.
I spin around and face the man by the pumps.
“Hey you gotta problem dude?”
He smiles a toothy grin. His eyes widen.
I see his brain kick into another gear, as if to say, “Hey I got the news man’s attention. La De Da. Now let’s really F*** with him,”
He begins to bellow on. Something akin to rancid algae blathers out of his face.
“shirt and tie…TV camera…newsman.”
The roar of the trucks makes it hard to hear what he is trying to convey.
My inability to understand his fatuousness pisses me off even more.
“Why don’t you come over here, then?,” I say with a sneer. “Let me put you on TV”
“I can’t come over there…shirt and tie….don’t like Ch. 5.”
This guy needs a drunk to English translator.
“You can’t come over here? Why not, cause you’re the drunk guy driving a big SUV,” I say angrily.
If this situation was ever going to escalate, I just invited crazy to dinner.
He pops off again. His words are hard to hear, like he’s chewing pea gravel.
I don’t care what he said. I am determined to shut his ass down.
“Dude, if you wanna come over, I’m right here.””
The bondsman smiles, for the first time all day. This cool customer says, “You want me to call the police.”
I feel adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I pull out my iPhone. “That’s OK,” I say. “I know a few cops.”
I get on the phone and talk to a Lieutenant I know in this part of town.
“Yeah, we’re by the gas station….I don’t know….Yeah we’re over by that pay by the pay-by-the-hour motel. Yeah, Maybe…Uh huh. I think they’re drunk….Big White SUV with a Canoe up top….uh huh. OK Thanks.”
I hang up and smile.
“We’ll see.” I say to the bondsman.
I resume my interview. Strangely, the young derelict at the gas pumps has quieted down. Perhaps formulating words has tired him out.
For whatever reason, he stays on his side of the pumps and we stay on our side.
A few minutes pass. I conclude my interview. Around the same time dumb and dumber get in their vehicle and drive away on I-40 West.
A few minutes later, a squadron of squad cars surround our location.
It looks like a drug bust gone bad. I feel awkward for having called the police and now have nothing to show them. I wave to many faces I recognize.
I explain the situation to the Sgt.
The Sgt. gets on his radio and signals the THP to be on the lookout for a white SUV with a canoe up top.
“Possible drunk driver,” he says authoritatively.
“I’m sorry about wasting your time,” I say to the officers.
“Hey it’s ok. That’s what we’re here for. He’s probably drunk all ready headed to the river.”
I decide to show the officer my video to help him see the vehicle or recognize the suspect.
I suddenly wonder if I was more of an ass than the drunk guy was.
I listen to the recorded exchange between us. I am firm, authoritative, but not rude. I am more aggressive than I remember.
Video rarely lies.
I wonder why a drop of perspiration prompted me to engage this educationally devoid mutton chop?
I guess it’s the crazy that lurks within me, and always has.
I sometimes forget that I’m not 6’4 – 250 lbs, and just a skinny white boy who ain’t packing any heat.
I laugh at myself.
As I drive back to the station, I think about what could have happened. What if the the drunk guy decided to take me up on my offer? What if the cops had arrived sooner?
Well at least I would have had it on video, I smile.
Just another day working on the periphery of crazy town.
Life’s Crazy™