The Moment 2

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™

The moment in your day that pokes you in the eye.

It’s the lion tamer’s whip, it’s the thunder after the lightning, it’s the realization that the pit bull has chomped down on your ass and he’s not letting go without veterinarian intervention.

I had that moment today at a police involved shooting.

The quick update: an off duty cop shoots a DUI suspect after he pulls a knife on law men.

Rule one of any moment? Don’t pull a knife at a gunfight.

Getting shot? That was the perp’s moment, not mine.

But his moment was the reason I was here, and about to have my moment.

I won’t bore you with the journalistic details. I’m at the crime scene, standing behind the crime tape. My photographer is sending back video and I am gathering my thoughts for the live shot which is now 5 minutes away.

We are standing on a man’s property next to the school where this happened. We have permission to be there. It’s perfect because the crime scene literally ends where the man’s property begins, yet we are behind the crime tape.

PERFECT.

Suddenly a TBI agent approaches.

I feel the sun blotted out in the sky as he walks toward me.

He is stern and buffed. His chest is swollen under his Titans t-shirt.

I watch the man approach. He is all muscle. I wonder if he pops anabolic steroids like breath mints.

He is wearing a gun on his hip and I see his badge glimmering in the sunlight.

His head is clean-shaven. His face is hard, scrunched, like he has indigestion.

He is a human version of Mr. Clean.

“You gotta move,” he says robotically, without emotion.

I stare at the law officer who is invading my space, trying to bust my balls.

“We’re live in 5 minutes.,” I respond.

“I don’t care. You gotta move,” he says again with all the flavor of gum that has been chewed by a soccer team.

I stare at the bald expressionless symbol of authority. I suspect this man last smiled during the Bush administration.

“I have permission to be on this property. It’s private property. It’s behind your crime tape.”

I know the rules. I’m on a private citizen’s property with permission. I could make this my line in the sand and cause this cop to become more agitated than a blender churning rocks.

“You gotta move,” he says from his prepared script.

“I’ll move after my live shot in 5 minutes,” I retort quickly.

“You’ll move now,” he says, his tone serious and hard.

I stare at the cop. He glares at me.

It is uncomfortable. It is awesome.

I love the tension. It’s a stand-off of wills. He has a badge. I have a wild hair up my ass.

The internal clock in my head is ticking.

“3 minutes to live” my photographer says, unaware of the MOMENT going on.

“I think we’re gonna have to move across the street,” I say.

He pulls his headphones off his head.

“Why?”

I point to the iron faced authority figure looming at the crime tape.

“This F**kin guy is on a power trip and wants to mess with us.”

I realize that I am not whispering. I realize that my voice is 500 octaves above a whisper. I realize, listening to myself that I’m pissed. No, I’m not pissed, I’m furious.

I realize that I am looking at my photographer, but my words are meant for the human tick standing 20 feet from me.

That’s when I feel the blinding white noise that often fills my brain at these times of chaos and pressure.

I feel the MOMENT knocking on my door, asking to come in.

Sure I say to the moment. Make yourself at home. Grab yourself a beer. I’ll be right with you. But 1st, I gotta deal with this infection standing before me.

I take a few steps toward the crime tape.

“We gotta be live in a few minutes,” I say, poking him verbally in his face.

“I need you across the street now,” he says chewing the enamel off his own front teeth.

“I’ll go after my live shot,” I counter quickly, calmly, challenging his authority in a way he is not prepared for.

“You’ll go now,” he says, his words prepared, orchestrated.

“There’s no time,” I say, pushing his buttons, crawling under his cop skin.

“Then run,” he says not caring about my missed live shot.

“Run?”You are a joker,” I retort.

I stay calm, but I feel my hands shaking.

I’m mainlining adrenaline. I’m skiing downhill and I have no way to stop.

This is the MOMENT. It’s the moment when I don’t care. This is the moment when I see the red cape and I am the bull. I just want to charge, stick my horns in his artificially enhanced beef and let him know that I have a badge too.

I take a few steps toward crime tape.

“I don’t think I’ll be running, “I say.

“then you’ll miss your live shot,” he counters.

“You know I’m on private property, with permission to be here, right?”

He glares at me.

I glare back. It’s interesting. It’s tense. It’s nerve-racking, yet exhilarating.

A million things fly through my mind.

What can he do? What do I care?

Tick Tock.

“They need an audio check,” my photographer interjects, beginning to walk toward the street.

I look at my photographer carrying the camera and tri pod away from this location.

To win this battle, I need my camera to stay where it is.

Now things are getting complex.

I turn to the TBI officer.

I take another step toward him.

We stare at one another. His face is cold like a Minnesota morning.

“What?” I suddenly say.

I feel the rest of the sentence coming, and like a broken water main, I cannot stop it. It is a force pushed by anger, by a lifetime of hating to be told what I am going to do. This feeling has often served me well. This feeling has often forced me to play cards that are not always well thought out.

“You need something? You have a problem?”

I shut my mouth. My tone is that of contempt and disrespect.

I feel like a gang banger wearing my colors and the man is simply trying to move me off my corner because he has a badge.

I am glaring daggers at the cop.

Tick. Tock.

I see my camera man now on the other side of the street.

He is preparing for a live shot in 2 minutes.

I am not prepared for a live shot. I’m prepared for a confrontation.

I am prepared for a fight in my MOMENT. It’s a MOMENT that I have been training for my entire life.

I size up my opponent. He has a gun and a badge. His authority encompasses this county.

I don’t have a gun or a badge. I have a camera and a microphone across the street.

But when connected to my equipment, I have the ability to instantaneously inform half the state.

I am staring at the authority figure before me.

His face has softened. It is less granite than before.

“You need something?” I say again.

Tick. Tock.

I feel the internal clock in my head. I wish there was time to walk closer and really challenge this Moment, massage it, make it my own.

Tick Tock.

I’d ask him about civil rights and property rights and he could tell me about power and the alleged abuse of it.

But there is no time.

Tick Tock.

“1 minute to the top of the show.”

I wonder what the officer before me is thinking?

This reporter’s an asshole? This newsman’s got a set. What’s wrong with this guy? I’d like to arrest this guy?

We are two immovable objects who lack trust or communication.

I don’t like what he represents, nor what he is trying to do.

But I have responsibility to my job and the viewers who need to be informed in 90 seconds.

“I don’t need anything,” he says. His power-hungry face has been replaced by something softer, something more perplexed.

I didn’t win this moment. But for some reason, that look, that little bit of humanity in his face makes me think, I didn’t lose either.

The white light fades and the insanity that makes me do insane things diminishes.

Tick Tock.

I stand for a moment more. It feels like an hour. I glare at him. I want him to understand that I don’t like him and that I wanted to fight him. I wanted to push his buttons. I wanted to test the 1st amendment right in this country bumpkin laboratory in the middle of nowhere.

But there is no time for any more of this MOMENT. After all, it was my private MOMENT. It has no place in the public realm.

“Good.”

I turn and walk with purpose to the other side of the street.

I don’t run, I strut. I think about the tough guy with the badge on the other side of the road.

My photographer looks frazzled.

He is dealing with issues that I should care about like audio and transmission strength.

I don’t care. I am still amped. I am intense and still percolating with that adrenaline rush that comes with the confrontation.

“coming to in 30 seconds,” he says.

My photographer seems more nervous than me.

I situate myself and take a breath.

The moment is gone.

Time to go to work.