Tales of the lost take humorous twist, turn
By Linda Albert | (email@example.com)
It’s always a pleasure to meet folks, especially when they are as nice as the gentleman who stopped by the office recently to swap howdies and funny stories. I promised him I wouldn’t use his name, but he did give me permission to tell about an incident that happened about a year ago.
“I was so embarrassed, I wouldn’t tell anybody about it for a long time,” he said with a grin.
The day started out innocently enough. Mr. B. was taking his vehicle in for servicing at a dealership on Alcoa’s Motor Mile, but he heard that traffic was backed up on Alcoa Highway due to a wreck. He decided to go the back way instead and avoid the logjam.
That was his first mistake.
“I missed my turn,” he said, and at the next stop sign, he was trying to get his bearings as to which way he needed to turn to get back in familiar territory.
“There was a policeman behind me, and I guess I hesitated a little bit too long,” Mr. B. recalled. The next thing he knew, the officer was walking up to his car and asking if he was all right.
The next question was, “Sir, on you on any medication?” The answer was, “Yes,” to which the officer replied, “Which medications?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. B. told him, but there was a good reason: his doctor had changed the medications not too long before and he wasn’t familiar with the names of the new ones.
“Then I said something I probably shouldn’t have said,” Mr. B. told me ruefully. “I said, ‘I’m a little confused.’”
“Sir, do you know where your wife is?” asked the officer. Mr. B.’s wife is a real estate agent and was out with clients, so he truthfully answered, “No.”
Things went downhill from there. Another officer was called to “help,” and the end result was that Mr. B. was not allowed to go on his merry way until his wife had been contacted — “It scared her half to death,” Mr. B. said — and had joined them at the intersection. “They wouldn’t let me leave until she got there,” Mr. B. recalled. “And I had to follow her home.”
For Christmas last year, Mrs. B. bought her hubby the perfect gift.
“It was a GPS,” Mr. B. said, laughing.
My daughter can appreciate this story. Back when she was a teenager, she and her best friend decided they would drive to Chattanooga and check out one of the malls. They went by way of U.S. Highway 411 South, very pleased with their newfound independence, I’m sure. Now, this was before cell phones became so commonplace, so once they were on their way, they had no way to reach the parental units unless they stopped at a business and checked in with one of us.
The trip went well. That is, until they started back home and at the 411 intersection, they once again opted for U.S. Highway 411 South. Heading south.
I can’t remember exactly how all the events unfolded, but they were almost to the Georgia state line before they figured out they were going the wrong way. I don’t know about Jessica, but my Emily knew she was in for a grounding at the very least at being out way past her curfew. Moms, you know exactly what I’m talking about. The chick has flown the nest, she’s supposed to be home by a certain time, and in your mind, she’s in a ditch somewhere between Greenback and Chattanooga — or worse. Your relief when she finally gets home at 1 or 2 or 3 in the morning is surpassed only by the dire consequences you’re plotting if there’s not a REALLY, REALLY good reason why she’s just endowed you with another prolific set of gray hairs.
When I heard the story, though, I had to laugh. Especially when Emily, who was driving my old Nissan, said they got pulled over in Vonore for speeding at that time of night — or morning. The officer walked up to the car and said, “You was a-scootin’ it, wasn’t you?” She still swears she was not speeding. Not much, anyway. I can’t remember for sure, but I think the officer let them off with just a warning.
All’s well that ends well, I reckon.
Linda Albert is Sunday Life editor and a staff writer for The Daily Times. Her column runs every Sunday in the Life section. You may contact her at 981-1168 or (firstname.lastname@example.org)