THE DAY I WAS ATTACKED BY A BRISKET: THE AFTERMATH OF A GREAT MEAL WAS NOT PRETTY, MY CAR IS IMPOUNDED, A LESSON IN BASIC FORESTRY, I GET A CRIMINAL RECORD AND I BECOME A PARIAH IN MY OWN FAMILY AND HOMETOWN.

BY

HAROLD ANDERSON

I need not worry about my scars fading, for they are not physical, but mental – the anguish of my criminal past; the result of rash actions.  Such are the bane of the idiot.  The 70’s comedian, Flip Wilson, had a convenient scape- goat.  For his, character, Geraldine, when confronted with some malfeasance, would proclaim,  “The Devil made me do it.” My nemesis was not the Devil, but a brisket.

Perhaps I should begin at the beginning (that is always a good place to start).

As I have previously explained, I am the state director of the Mississippi “chapter” of Project Learning Tree, an environmental education program.  The Mississippi program is actually governed by a 20-person advisory board, which normally meets twice a year – July and December – in the Forestry Association office in Jackson.  I know the following is confusing, but stay with me.  We operate on two separate program years.  Our fiscal year coincides with the state fiscal year – July 1 – June 30.  For the purpose of reporting to the national PLT office, we operate on a calendar year.  Our December board meeting is, therefore, an important one:  I can update the board on our expenditures mid-way through the fiscal year and project our accomplishments for the calendar year.

The meeting usually goes something like this:  I tell them the good news:  that we have far exceeded our accomplishment goals, then the bad news: although I am being as frugal as possible, we are going to be real close on the budget, and we need to think about increasing it for next year. They tell me there is no more money to be had, and to suck it up and live within my means.  I promise to use both sides of the paper and to beg supplies from supporters rather than buy them.  They say “Good job, that’s the spirit.” I give everyone a little Christmas present (usually flower bulbs, because they are all gardeners, and I can get them cheap at the end-of-the-season sale from Van Zyverdon’s, a bulb importer in Meridian.)  And then we eat.

This past year, Paula made a large seven-layer salad, a lady with the Forestry Association made dessert, and we had a brisket catered.  The brisket was, as the British say, “lovely” – uniformly sliced, fork tender and swimming in an inch of meat juice. But my first experience with it was a disaster, and a portent of an even more ominous occurrence.  I forked a slice, only to have it ker-plop back into the pan, spewing forth a spray of greasy meat juice – all over my brand-new heavy cotton shirt (which had drawn compliments that morning), and my last unsullied pair of khaki pants. I hastily retreated to the men’s room and vainly attempted to wash off the grease spots.  Oh, well.  But, the meal was delicious.

After everyone had left, I gathered up my paperwork, ipad, Paula’s salad bowl, and -- knowing how good it would be for supper – the pan of left-over brisket, still swimming in its own juice.  Oh, joy! My car was already loaded for a workshop the next day, so there was only room in the back seat for my box of paperwork.  I put the dishes and my ipad on the front passenger- side floor. Since space was limited, I was forced to stack the dish.  Now I had a decision:  If I put the rectangular, flat-bottom brisket pan on bottom, and the round-bottom salad bowl, with its small, flat pedestal inside, I would have a mess on the bottom of the bowl, and even though there was a sheet of aluminum foil on top of the brisket, that just did not seem very sanitary.  I decided to put the bowl on bottom and the pan on top and put my ipad on the floor next to it. Bad choice.

Everything was going fine as I headed for home – until a driver “cut me off,” and I had to abruptly cut to the right.  The dishes toppled over, spilling brisket juice all over the floor carpet – and my ipad, where it pooled between the device and its “Otter Box” cover.  Now, friends, I was in heavy traffic, with cars passing me on both the left and right, so I could not stop to set things right.  Keeping my eyes on the road as best as I could, I leaned way over, grabbed my ipad and dropped it on the seat.  The juice in the Otter Box began to run out.  I eventually had to discard my floor mat, stains still remain on my seat, and my car still smells like kitchen of a greasy spoon restaurant.

I got into the right lane as soon as I could and headed for nearest exit – the driveway of a burger joint -- and took the first available parking space – where the sign read “Reserved for Employee of the Month.  All Others Towed.” I ran into the men’s room, intending to drain the remaining juice form the Otter Box and clean it with a damp paper towel.  There was not a paper-towel dispenser, just a blow-dryer with a hypocritical sign claiming that blow dryers dry hands better save trees and, thereby, all of Planet Earth.  Balderdash.

OK, all you rabbit hunters, take heart.  We are about to go chase one, for I am about to give you a lesson in basic forestry.  NOT thinning over-thick forests does NOT save trees, forests or Planet Earth.  It does just the opposite.  Trees must have room to grow, but they often come up too thick, and trees are usually deliberately planted too thick so competition between them will force them to shed their lower branches and grow straight and tall so they will become valuable high-quality saw logs.  As the stand ages, excess trees must be removed, otherwise trees will shade their neighbors and competition for nutrients and water will become fierce.  The entire stand will be weakened and can easily become infested with insects or disease.  At best, the weaker trees will die.  A forest full of dead and dying trees is ripe for a destructive forest fire.  Most landowners cannot afford to thin a forest unless there is a market for small trees to pay for the work or, hopefully, to make a profit.  Pulpwood is an ideal use for such small trees. Every time someone declines to use paper, he is harming our forests.  By the way, If blow dryers do such a great job, how come you usually end up drying your hands on the seat of your pants?  The truth is the restaurant owner is just too cheap to buy paper towels.  End of rabbit hunt.

I ran into the dining room and grabbed some paper napkins.  The counter man said, “Hey, you can’t do that, napkins are for paying customers.”

“There are not any paper towels in the bathroom,” I explained.

“Use the blow dryer.”

“I hate those things, besides, I spiled meat juice on my ipad and I need a napkin to clean it off.”

“Did you buy the meat here?” he asked.

“No, but it is drying on my ipad, and I have to clean it off!”

“I don’t care, you have to buy food to get napkins.”

“Well, I’ll have a cup of coffee – senior, with two Equals and one creamer.”

“We don’t have any brewed,” he explained.

“Well, get to it,” I replied.

“OK.  It will take about five minutes.”

So there I stood, fidgeting, as the brisket juice congealed on my ipad.

Five minutes later, he said, “Your coffee is ready.”  I snatched it from the counter, ran to the napkin dispenser and grabbed a handful. 

“Hey!” he yelled, “You can’t do that, I told you, napkins come with food.  Coffee is not food.”

“Well, give me a Big-Smack,” I snarled.

“Not until you pay for the coffee.”

“Just a second, my wallet is in my car,” I explained, as I darted out the door.

I ran to where my car should be – but wasn’t. I ran back into the restaurant yelling, “Call the police! Someone has stolen my car!”

“Was that your silver Chevy?” the counterman asked.

“Yes!  That was it.”

“Nobody stole it, we had it towed.”

“WHAT!”

“Yep.”  I am Employee of the Month,’” he explained, with his chest puffed out, “and you were in my reserved space.  Didn’t you see the sign that said “All Others Towed?”

“Yeah, but this was an emergency.”

“No exceptions.”

“Well, how can I get it back?” I asked, incredulously.

“You will have to go to the impound yard.”

 “I don’t have a car.”

“Call a cab.”

“How can I pay for a cab, my wallet and all my money are in my car.”

“Your problem, not mine,” he replied with an unconcerned shrug.”

Since I still had my cell phone (an old-fashioned flip-phone) holstered to my belt, at least I could make a phone call.  I figured I would call a cab and worry about paying when I got to my destination.  Maybe some soft-hearted cabbie would take pity on me and accept delayed payment once I got my wallet (yeah, right!).

                Once I arrived at my destination, the driver said, “That’ll be $12.50.”  I explained my plight and asked his indulgence until I retrieved my wallet. 

                “Yeah, sure,” he said, “Do I look like I was born yesterday? Once you leave this cab, I will never see you or my money again.  Pay up – NOW --  or I’ll take it out of your hide!”

                The only thing I had of value was my ipad. “Look,” I said, I will give you my ipad.  Trust me, it is worth a lot more than $12.50.”

                “Won’t do me any good; I don’t have the password.”

So I gave him the password. “Fire it up and try it out,” I said. He did, and it worked.  He drove off in possession of my ipad – and that page in my notepad I failed to think about that had the Social Security Numbers of everyone in the family and my credit card number – including the security code.

I entered the office of the impound yard and explained my situation to the officer on duty. “ Let me see some ID,” he said. “I can’t,” I replied, with growing frustration, “My wallet with my ID is in my car.”

He finally agreed to let me enter my car to get my wallet.  It was still there, minus all the cash.  I guess the tow-truck driver figured he deserved a tip.

I opened my wallet and showed him my driver’s license and retired military ID. “Doesn’t look like you,” he said, after examining the documents carefully. “That’s some young fat guy.”

“Look, I replied, “those photos were taken years ago.  I have aged since then and lost some weight.  You know how miserable those driver’s license photos are, and you would think that if the Navy can spend a billion dollars on one ship, they could afford a decent camera, but apparently not. Trust me.  That is me.”

“Don’t think so, I have got to have some verification.  Somebody has got to come in and vouch for you.”

So, I called one of my board members, a respected and well-known member of the local community and explained my plight. He correctly identified me and immediately returned to work, leaving me to fend for myself.

“OK, I said, thinking I was finally getting somewhere, can I have my car?”

“Gotta see your license, registration and proof of insurance,” he said.

“But I just showed you my license.”

“Yeah, well, but at the time I did not think it was you.”

“Let me see it again, and the other stuff.”

I produced all the documents.  He examined them and gave me the devastating news.  “License is expired, and that’s last year’s proof of insurance.  By the way, the inspection sticker is expired and you have a headlight out. I’ll write you a citation for the expired documents, but you can’t get the car until you get the headlight fixed.

“But, It is daylight out,” I exclaimed, trying real hard to control my temper.

“Doesn’t matter, be getting dark soon.  You can’t drive with a headlight out.”

That’s when I lost it.  “Listen, Barney Fife, I have had a hell of a day.  Can’t you be reasonable?  Don’t you have just a little pity in your soul?  I just want to get out of here.  I will drive straight home and get there before dark. Now give me my car, you ignorant redneck!”

He just looked at me for a minute then said, “You are going to need a bail bondsman, too.”

“WHAT?  WHY?”

“Because you are under arrest for assaulting an office of the law.”

“WHAT?  I never touched you.  How could I have assaulted you?

“Verbal.  That counts.”

“But, but,” I stuttered, almost unable to catch my breath.

“You better be quite and calm down,” or I will also charge you with resisting arrest.”

I pulled out my cell phone and asked for the number of a bail bondsman and auto mechanic. Do you have any idea what a bail bondsman’s fee is, and what a mechanic charges for a house call?  You don’t want to know, trust me.

Well, I finally made it home.  My wife asked why I was so late, and I just told her that my meeting ran longer than expected, and I had taken advantage of my trip to Jackson to do some shopping, but she did not need to worry about supper, because I had a pan of really good left-over brisket.

She invited the kids over.

The sun shining in through the windshield at the impound lot must have really heated up the car.  We all ended up at the emergency room getting our stomachs pumped, everyone’s credit cards were maxed out with purchases they did not make, and no one at church will speak to me because of all that nasty stuff posted on Facebook under my name.

Now, tell me about your day.