Stupid things
Ralph was fifty years old when the
unknown Florida driver began the chain of events that took his Earthly life. He
had retired from the Army six years before and, after discussion with Cassandra
and studies of weather, cost of living and taxes, moved to Florida. When asked
why Florida, he always replied, “Wisconsin.” When a questioner said, “Oh, the
weather,” Ralph always replied, “And the politics. Mostly the weather, though.
And the politics.”
During his army career of two and half
decades plus one year, Ralph had learned many things about people. One of those
things was: People will do stupider stuff than you can imagine.
Running a red light was a stupid thing.
Running a red light could cause problems, such as initiating a collision and
causing a Toyota Tacoma to become airborne and smash into another vehicle and
its passenger or passengers. Ralph had never run a red light, at least not on
purpose. There was one incident, when he was attached to a Navy Construction
Battalion at Dallas Naval Air Station and did not see the red light at five
o’clock in the morning, on his way to work. In the middle of the intersection,
Ralph realized two important facts: the light was red, and a police car had
stopped on a green side, rather than run into Ralph’s full size pickup.
Ralph was pulling over before the police
officer had time to turn on his Pull Over Now lights. Also, Ralph was so angry
at not seeing the red light, he was out of his pickup and slamming the door
just as the police drew near. Soldiers of varying rank had seen an angry Ralph
and had reacted according to training, traditions and regulations. The police
did not know Ralph from Adam, as the saying went then. The police reacted as
trained: He stopped, held up a hand and said, “Please return to your vehicle,
sir.” Ralph realized his anger had made him temporarily stupid, and he did as
the police requested. Smartly.
With the individual back inside the
vehicle, the police approached warily and informed the individual he had run a
red light. Ralph admitted his guilt. He made no excuse. The police asked for
and received Ralph’s license and proof of insurance. He asked Ralph to please
wait, and returned to his patrol vehicle. Ralph knew the police was checking
with a dispatcher, who then fed Ralph’s name, driver’s license number and
vehicle license tag number into a request for local, state and the National
Crime Index Center computers to check all files for the named individual’s
criminal record, if such existed. Ralph knew he had no such record. In all of
his years on Earth, he did not have a single ticket for speeding, illegal parking,
DUI, DWI, or any other of the myriad local, state and national rules and laws
for which a citizen maybe be cited and/or fined.
The police returned. He stopped slightly
behind Ralph’s line of sight. “Mister Kroder,” he said, “do you have a
concealed carry permit?”
“I do,” Ralph said.
The police said, “You failed to mention
that fact when I asked for your license and proof of liability insurance.”
Ralph knew he could tell the police that
such disclosure was not required by state law. However, he did not wish to
antagonize the police, so he said, “I do not have a weapon on my person or in
my vehicle.” Possessing a firearm on military posts and bases was illegal,
unless the firearm was registered with the provost marshal and stored in a safe
manner in a unit arms room. Even then, the registered firearm could be carried
only to and from an authorized shooting range, or when the owner of the firearm
was leaving the post or base. Ralph always carried his concealed Colt Commander
when in any other part of Dallas – University Park, Downtown, South Dallas – or
in Fort Worth, or a suburb of either city, or anywhere else in the state of
Texas.
Ralph said, “I am on my way to work, at
the Naval Air Station, where carrying a private firearm is prohibited.”
The police chuckled. “Well, that sucks.
But it is the federal government.” He stepped into Ralph’s vision. “Mister
Kroder, could you tell me why you ran the red light?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Well, Sir, that’s not much of an
excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse,” Ralph said. “There
is no excuse.” He did not tell the police he drove the same route at the same
time every day. Then the thought hit: That’s
stupid. You do not take the same route two times in a row.
Ralph realized the police was talking. “…
warning ticket, since you have been forthright with me.”
Ralph took the offered license and
insurance card. “Thank you, Officer…?
“Wilson,” the police said. “Clarence
Wilson.”
“Thank you, Officer Wilson.”
Officer Wilson pushed a ticket pad into
Ralph’s reach. “If you would please sign at the bottom.” Ralph did. Officer
Wilson said, “This is not a citation, but a warning.” He tore off a lower,
carbon, copy and gave the piece of paper to Ralph. “Here you are, Mister
Kroder. Have a safe drive.”
That incident, a dozen years before, was
the nearest Ralph had come to having a real traffic ticket issued. Other than
that one warning, Ralph had a perfect driving record. And now, six years
retired from a very dangerous occupation, driving a golf cart along a wide
sidewalk after a trip to a Publix Super Market, he and the golf cart were hit
by an airborne Toyota Tacoma pickup. Ralph died instantly.
