Saturdays were my days. You wouldn’t see me at the stock car races or a Royals baseball game. My typical routine began by sleeping late. Weekdays, I usually got up at 5:30 A.M. and that went on for too many years. My first stop, if I did not want to embark on my annual trip to the mall, would be to McDonald's. It was a favorite from childhood because of their excellent fries and clean rest rooms. I would cap the day off with research at the library. Yes, I’m different.
It was about ten years ago when I pulled my blue-with-white-stripe 1992 Ford XLT into McDonald’s parking lot. If you recall, it’s the truck that had an awful susceptibility to rust around the wheel wells. (You’d think the rust proofing in the buyer’s package would have prevented it.) No sooner had I stopped and walked three feet than a policeman appeared in front of me asking for I.D.: “Papers please.” As soon as I handed him my Driver’s license and proof of insurance, another cop appeared behind and to my left and then another behind and on the right. These guys were really good. He ran a trace of me on his Motorola radio to who knows where: INTERPOL or perhaps Homeland Security?
My old rusted Ford matched the description of a truck used by an armed robber who’d either knocked off one of the local businesses or threatened someone in a domestic dispute. I never found out exactly. Things like that happen all the time in a city. If I’d been the bad guy I wouldn’t have stood a chance because they had me surrounded. Everybody in McDonald’s was glued to the windows, but I didn’t know it.
With a disappointed look in his face it became apparent that I was not the perpetrator. He thanked me for my time and told the others, “He's OK.” Before the policeman left, I told him he could search my truck. Perhaps the discovery of my suspicious ice scraper, Mini Mag Lite, and whisk broom would come close to justifiable cause. He didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
When I opened the door to McDonald’s there was wild clapping and the youthful day manager greeted me at the counter with: “That was awesome dude!” In a few seconds I regained enough composure to remember my original mission – to procure my favorite Saturday Quarter Pounder Meal - no cheese. No sooner had I ordered when he said, “On the house!”
That particular Saturday was a memorable one. The police eventually caught their man and I got a free meal - and a super-sized one at that.
