Cops and Flight

NEXT time, we'll know what to do.

The good news is, we're so unaccustomed to getting robbed, we're not so efficient at dealing with the aftermath.

That's the bad news, too.

After the tires were done, Walter went back to the Hollywood police station in person, since the jackasses weren't returning his calls.

Whereupon, they FINALLY went to look at the ATM's videotapes. I mean!!! A no-brainer. Crook's got his face on camera, folks.

Which happened to be at a casino ATM. Not just any - the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. World-class place, that.

And probably one reason the cops were slacking off. They assumed this guy'd just gambled away the grocery money and was trying to blame it on a theft.

Well, Hollywood, ya know what they say about ASSUME...

Once they saw the tapes, their attitude did a 180 reversal. Gee. Nothing like EVIDENCE to tell ya what's what.

OTOH, they're still a bunch of lazy sunsabitches. Tiger don't change his stripes.

So they decided it was Ft. Lauderdale's jurisdiction. See, while the money was stolen from a Hollywood ATM, they figured the CARD was stolen in Lauderdale - the last ATM Walter had used.

Whereupon Walter - no dummy there, folks - suddenly remembered he'd *lost* it at our local Publix or thereabouts. This actually puts him in the jurisdiction of our very own kind little hard-working police force! No long drive to Hollywood! no waiting around at the busy Lauderdale police station! no! *our* quiet little cop shop, only blocks away from home!

Imagine that!

But Hollywood had taken so long to look at the tapes, time was running out. His flight was at 6:40. He was still down at the local house at 5:15...waiting for a cop to come home.

See, they were all out patrolling. Working. If we'd just called them up they'd have come quick to our house. Walter went in person, and there was no one at the station to take the report.

And me, I was stressing. Which I go to great lengths NOT to do.

I used to fly a lot. Before I got sick I'd clocked around 300,000 miles. Real ones, not those *frequent flyer* bonuses. But in the early 90's, before boarding a Delta flight, I stood at the ticket counter and explained I had a disability that would require me to wear this respirator. They tried to bump me off the plane on the grounds that I'd scare the other passengers with The Mask. They'd think I was a terrorist.

True. But, tough shit. They'd have to suck it up and deal with it. That's why I was TELLING the airline ahead of time. So the crew would know I'm just a sickie of the health variety, not the terror type.

Needless to say, I quietly and calmly quothe the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 at them; declared that wearing my breathing apparatus unimpeded is a Reasonable Accommodation of a Disability; and explained that disabled people were usually broke since we're not able to work plus have high medical costs, so I'd be delighted to have my lawyer call their lawyers to pick up my check, which would likely contain treble damages.

They let me fly.

But not being able to breathe unassisted kinda took the fun out of it. I haven't flown but once or twice since then.

Flown zero since 9/11.

No more Miss Sophisticate, to know how likely Walter'd be to make that flight.

I do know that those lines at the security point really can be two hours long. I called and found out the flight wasn't TOTALLY booked, so he probably wouldn't get bumped due to overbooking. And since he had all the papers done and no bags to check, he'd ONLY have to wait in the one line.

But all this was little comfort at 5:15, with no Walter in sight and a 6:40 flight.

He made it home at 5:40, and we left for the airport five minutes later. The Goddess of Green Lights was with us. On the road, and at the security checkpoint.

Just before I crashed into bed, he used the last of his dying cell phone to tell me he'd boarded. Oh, I slept.

When I got up around 4am, I had two messages. He made it to Atlanta. Then he made it to his truck, and was turning in for a well-deserved sleep.

Oh...and: here I sit, looking at a card from the police department, with a --

oh, blessed day! --

*case number* written right on it.