Strange But True Story #2
(The Day I Dialed 911)
In college (American University, DC, 1987-91) I waited tables at a delicatessen on Wisconsin Avenue. I was well liked by the owners and had regular customers and lived a block away, which meant I'd often open the place for breakfast.
One afternoon, detectives from the DC police came in, flashing a mug shot of a guy they were looking for. I recognized him as a breakfast regular. The guy had bailed from a car in a high speed chase. When the cops searched the car, I was told, they found several stolen typewriters in his trunk, as well as a variety of women's (and girl's) underwear. He was wanted in connection with some unspecified lurid offense. The detectives told me that, if he came to the deli, I should call 911.
A week or so later, he arrived for the $2.99 breakfast special. I had never been a tough-on-crime, law-and-order kind of guy, but I felt compelled to follow up on the detectives' directive. I imagined this guy forcibly removing underwear from victims and writing about it on one of his stolen typewriters. So I dialed 911.
I did so in the kitchen, then entered the restaurant through the swinging double doors and took his order: two eggs, over easy, bacon, rye, orange juice, coffee. I hid my panic from him and acted cool.
He was the only patron at the time, and when the cops arrived a few minutes later, they approached him and asked if there was a problem. He, of course, said no. The cops, totally unaware of why they had been called, simply left. I hid in the kitchen until the lecherous fugitive's breakfast was ready.
I brought him his food and feigned, "What was that all about?"
"I don't know," he feigned in return.
"Fuckin' cops. More coffee?" I asked.
"Sure, thanks."
He ate his breakfast and left, leaving a two buck tip on a three dollar breakfast.
(The Day I Dialed 911)
In college (American University, DC, 1987-91) I waited tables at a delicatessen on Wisconsin Avenue. I was well liked by the owners and had regular customers and lived a block away, which meant I'd often open the place for breakfast.
One afternoon, detectives from the DC police came in, flashing a mug shot of a guy they were looking for. I recognized him as a breakfast regular. The guy had bailed from a car in a high speed chase. When the cops searched the car, I was told, they found several stolen typewriters in his trunk, as well as a variety of women's (and girl's) underwear. He was wanted in connection with some unspecified lurid offense. The detectives told me that, if he came to the deli, I should call 911.
A week or so later, he arrived for the $2.99 breakfast special. I had never been a tough-on-crime, law-and-order kind of guy, but I felt compelled to follow up on the detectives' directive. I imagined this guy forcibly removing underwear from victims and writing about it on one of his stolen typewriters. So I dialed 911.
I did so in the kitchen, then entered the restaurant through the swinging double doors and took his order: two eggs, over easy, bacon, rye, orange juice, coffee. I hid my panic from him and acted cool.
He was the only patron at the time, and when the cops arrived a few minutes later, they approached him and asked if there was a problem. He, of course, said no. The cops, totally unaware of why they had been called, simply left. I hid in the kitchen until the lecherous fugitive's breakfast was ready.
I brought him his food and feigned, "What was that all about?"
"I don't know," he feigned in return.
"Fuckin' cops. More coffee?" I asked.
"Sure, thanks."
He ate his breakfast and left, leaving a two buck tip on a three dollar breakfast.