I got a Butterfinger Ice Cream Bar at the gas station on Farmington Road.  I had a trip on my screen, someone needing to be picked up on Roanoke, near Methodist Hospital.

These are bad life decisions, by the way.  Shouldn’t be delaying  because I have a craving.  But, they’re so damn good.  That is, if you’re a fan of delicious flavor.

I ate it enroute.  It seemed best to destroy the evidence.  I think it was gone before I crossed Sheridan.

Ice cream has to be treated like a time bomb when you’re behind the wheel.  It’s only a matter of time before the center will be warm enough to melt off the stick, into your lap…

When the inevitable came to pass, my left hand slipped off the wheel and caught the chocolate crunch covered meteor. For half a second I considered the situation… my hand had just been on the wheel, ew…ew, and the chocolate was beginning to stick to my palm… driving with my knee, eyes still on the road… no choice but to eat it.  Jump on the fucking grenade.

I parked on Roanoke and attempted to call the customer.  While I was dialing, I saw a man wearing a stocking cap and dark coat, dash up the stairwell and in the front door.

Within a minute two officers on foot followed, guns drawn.

They entered as backup arrived on the scene.  There must have been eight officers surrounding the building, roughly two minutes behind the suspect.  Seriously, it was Minority Report response time.

It wasn’t until I saw one of the cops step out with an AR-15 (or something like it) that I decided this trip was a waterhaul.  But I gave the customer another call before I drove away just to make sure. 

No answer.

“Somebody just went out the back!” one of the officers said and a few of them went sprinting toward the fleeing shadow in the alley.

I wonder if that was my customer.  Fuck, was I supposed to be his hostage or getaway driver?  Glad I went with my gut…

Probably not though.  The man may not have even lived in that building, the door may have been unlocked because it’s divided into apartments inside, and he was just planning on going right out the back.

I’d like to believe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But, I’ll never really know.

EPILOGUE

Much later, after Friday evening had given way to Saturday morning, near the end of my shift, I picked up some Bradley students who wanted me to pile 7 in.

I had to say no, even with a twenty dollar offer (which was nice), and I ended up with three girls.

I told them what I’d studied, and that inevitably led to one of them asking if I’d write about them.

The answer, to that question…

in most cases, when the trip is very brief and nothing extraordinary happens, although the conversation may be somewhat interesting and pleasant…

is no.

“Yeah, if you’ll be my groupies,” I said with genuine deadpan sarcasm, “I’ll write about you.”

To my surprise, delight and dismay all in one, this was met with a unison squeal.  Fuck.  They paid, and left a nice tip.

So, random Bradley girls, this one’s for you.