Hey! It's Mike
Trailer park veterans.
When I was a kid growing up in a small town in Alabama, there were kids who were friends of mine and kids who weren't. We had a good time most of the time, playing outside, riding bikes and playing baseball with tennis balls instead of baseballs. We lived on a dead end street, at the end of the street we had the perfect area to ride bikes. This area was a place where someone had landscaped just enough to leave us mounds of dirt to use as ramps. We managed to beat the bushes back enough to have nice trails to ride on with our bikes.There was also a nice thicket of pine trees to ride through.The fallen pine needles kept the weeds and brush from growing which provided a good shaded trail area.
Kids are kids and we all get in tussles and things of that nature, but there is always, it seems, an asshole that is older and bigger than the other kids. Our bigger older kid was Terry and his omni-present, tagalong, ass-hat brother Mike. Terry decided that he would pick on me for some reason, I still don't know why he picked me and I don't care, it's all water under the bridge. I never thought about the events of summer 1981 until late summer 2005. One day, Terry decided to start picking on me again, but this time I tried to fight back. I really don't remember the details of what transpired, but I remember Terry grabbed me in a head-lock and punched me right in my dang eye. I saw bright streaks of whitish blue lightning pain shooting across the backs of my eyelids. My dad-gum eye immediately became a swollen black-eye. Ass-hat Mike stood by laughing. That is all I remember. I know that what little I do remember is accurate, but I did not seek revenge though the thought crossed my mind, of that I am certain.
I grew up. Fast forward to 2005, I am a police officer in another town about 30 miles from my home town.
It all started as I was sitting in my patrol car pondering the limitations of traveling at light speed for extended periods of time. Silence is golden sometimes. My police radio crackles to life as dispatch is calling to tell me of a domestic disturbance at the local trailer park. I have many stories to tell that originate from that street, let this be the first, and the one I savor the most. I answered the dispatcher and I was off to handle yet another drunken fool beating his wife's eyes out.
As I arrive at the trailer, I see about 200 empty, crushed Busch Beer cans (Not exaggerating) strewn about the yard and on the dirt / gravel driveway which is barely 10 ft long. The trailer itself is about 10 ft. wide and 60 ft. long. Dents covering the multi-colored dingy mold laden metal siding. Off on the right of the trailer about 20 ft. away and parked parallel to the trailer was an old school bus from the 1970's. The bus was painted white. The paint was apparently applied from the Krylon spray can. On school buses there is a space reserved, over the windshield, for the words SCHOOL BUS, generally stenciled in large black letters. However, this was a trailer park, the space on this bus had in big red letters, hand painted with a 2 1/2 inch wide brush, Earnhardt Jr. and the numeral 8. The windows had draperies made of the plastic tapestries you might find in convenience stores that advertise to us, Budweiser The King of Beers, with the same numeral 8 posted below the slogan. There wasn't much grass to speak of in the small yard, and the obligatory 3 dogs under the rotting, old, wooden porch began barking. I noticed a man standing amidst the Busch beer cans, but did not recognize him as a local.
I quickly got out of my car and approached him to talk to him about the possible incident that I was sent there to investigate. As I approached him I noticed he looked drunk and smelled like Adolf Coors ass. He had long, oily hair tied up in a pony tail and his face was 2 days past needing a shave. I began to talk to him as I usually do when I approach a possible suspect, and when conversation is engaged I begin to pat him and feel for weapons. It was a late August summer night and the man was clad in a dirty blue jean jacket. As I felt of one of the pockets I felt an unopened can. As I took it out, you can imagine my astonishment to discover it was a can of Busch Beer. The barking dogs must have alerted the woman in the house to my presence. I heard the squeak of the screen door on the trailer as she emerged from the trailer to see who was in the yard. About that time I asked the drunk guy to sit in my car for my safety while I went to speak with the woman in the house. He had no problems with that and sat in the back seat. I shut the door and went to the trailer.
The walk to the trailer was a fun one, dodging doggy land mines and then climbing the 4 moss covered slippery steps onto the rotting old porch. As I made it to the top I opened the old squeaky door and entered the most redneck dwelling I have ever been in. The walls were clad with huge Confederate Battle Flags. The ones with red backgrounds and the white stripes forming an "X" with stars inside the stripes. That wasn't good enough for these people just having the flag, these flags had a picture of Hank Williams Jr. posted in the middle of the flag with a big cheesy smile on his face. The smell of dog crap was heavy in the dank cigarette smoke filled living-room. The carpet was a nice shade of dirt that matched the sofa and recliner sitting to the right of the sofa.
I asked the woman what had happened and she began to explain that her husband had hit her and ran away when she called the police. I asked if that man I was talking to in the yard was her husband. She told me no and gave me her husbands name. I filled out a report for her and explained that I could do nothing since he had fled and that it would be up to her to prosecute him. While I was doing this I called in the ID number of the man who was in my car. As I was looking at his ID I noticed he was from my home town. Then I noticed his address was on the street adjacent to the street I had lived on for 20 years. Then I noticed his name and it all came to me like a flood in my head. I asked her what was the name of the man in the yard. She said,"Mike". I stood there for a minute, staring at the ID I had in my vengeful hand, checking and re-checking. I told the woman that the man in the yard would be going with me because he was drunk in public.
I hurried out to the car and looked at my man in the backseat by shining my Mag-Lite right in his dang eye. He squinted the drunks squint, with one eye closed and the other half-opened. It was him, I had Ass-hat Mike by the balls. After 24 years Karma had come back and jammed a wedge in Ass-hat Mikes butt. I opened the door and said, "Hey Mike, where's your brother Terry"? He continued with the squint and replied, "Who the fuck are you and how do you know my brother"?
I told him to step out and I would explain a few things to him about the situation at hand. As he got out of the car in a drunken stupor, I put handcuffs on him then told him he was under arrest for public intoxication. Then I said," You can thank your asshole brother Terry for this"!
All the way to jail he was asking how I knew his brother, when I grew tired of that I began to describe the house they lived in back in those days. Then I pulled another of his brothers names out and really freaked him out.
As far as I know he still doesn't know who put him in jail because I never told him anything other than Terry got him put in jail that night. I haven't seen Ass-hat Mike since, I don't know if he showed up for court and I don't care. I stood beside his cell laughing that night thinking back to that day in 1981. In your dang eye Ass-hat Mike.
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