It's hard to
believe that something so clear in my memory happened so long ago. I was still
a pretty young guy, and I was still burning the candle at both ends. I'd be in
the bakery early in the morning, do paperwork, run errands, mix dough, proof dough, cut dough, again
proof dough, fry dough, ice and fill dough, pack finished donuts in boxes to be
delivered, then deliver the donuts―after I cleaned up the bakery.
We had
several delivery routes back then, but this route was the longest and most
spread out. Because I couldn't pay
anyone to do it, and still make money, I took it. It was a terrible route, with
long distances between stops.
I first went
to Bluffton, then up to Ft. Wayne, then
the rest of the stops took me to the west side of the state. Once done, I drove back home, for what seemed
like an eternity, with no more stops. I drank
coffee, popped Nodoz, and even took aspirin to do ANYTHING to get the caffeine
in my system.
This night,
I had already been to Bluffton. I then went up to Ossian, where I was routinely
pulled over for speeding. It really was unintentional―I had a hard time
focusing. The police there were ALWAYS nice. It was almost a welcome break from
my drive just so I could talk to someone,even if they were writing me a ticket
or warning.
I arrive in
Ft Wayne, make my drop, and I'm heading to Highway 30. Was I speeding? Absolutely.
I'm tired and I want to finish as soon as possible so that my caffeine rush
doesn't desert me.
I see the
familiar red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. This has become such a
common occurrence to me, it doesn't faze me anymore. I pull to the side, have
my license and registration all ready, and roll down my window. I wonder what
the heck is he doing back there.
Suddenly, several
more police cars show up. This isn't standard operating procedure. The original
police car finally opens. I'm looking back at him, because I'm baffled.
He yells (I
mean, really yells!) at me to get back in the van (I just had my head sticking
out the window), put both hands outside my window as far as they could go, and
not to move a muscle. This seems a bit theatrical.
I look at
him, and he's making a pretty wide semicircle to be able to see me, as he
approaches. HIS GUN IS DRAWN. Suddenly I realized that this is real.
But...
If you know
me at all, you know my thoughts aren't always the most practical. It dawned on
me, that I had a van full of donuts…and that there were a lot of policemen. They
SO wanted my donuts, they were willing to threaten physical violence for them. What
an honor!
Of course,
this made me start to laugh. I'm tired. Incredibly drained. Running on fumes.
The longer I look at the situation, the funnier it becomes. To me.
NOT to them.
I'm
"gently" pulled out of the van―at gunpoint. I'm still giggling like a
little girl. I'm frisked (by the way―that isn't cool), and another officer
looks in the van with his flashlight. "What is in those boxes?" he
screams.
Now I'm
almost dying. "Donuts," I say with a huge grin.
He opens a
couple boxes. Now he starts to laugh.
I told them
I had just dropped off donuts at a convenience store and was heading to my next
stop.
Apparently,
a man in a van had just robbed a store and was racing down Highway 69. I was
understandably mistaken for that guy.
The police
were very nice and told me to be careful. It was one of the few times that
sheer adrenaline saw me through the rest of my route.
I wonder if
any of them are still telling that story to their friends?