Could Have Been Worse

By Larrywomack

The phone rings in the middle of the night and startles the hell out of me.  I jump out of bed, dash across the hall to the kitchen, and step on an avocado that, earlier in the day, escaped from my grocery sack.

Thank God, it was ripe or I might have broken my foot.

Grabbing the receiver, I answer “Hello” as though I had been standing there all along.

The voice on the other end, says, “Larry?”

“Yes?”

“Your mother died.  It was a massive stroke.”

I politely say, “Thank you,” and hang up.

My mother had died fourteen years earlier, and, for some reason, that guy just found out.  News must travel slowly wherever he is.

I find it difficult to go back to sleep in the middle of the night when I’ve been awakened with bad news.  Even if that news is fourteen years old.

I lie here thinking about those things that people allegedly think of when awakened in the middle of the night.  Like raiding the refrigerator.  Surely that only happens in the funny paper or on a sitcom. I can’t imagine eating a turkey leg at 2 AM while sitting at the dining room table.

Since reading a book or counting sheep never worked for me either, I decide to get dressed and go for a drive.

Needing gas, I stop at the convenience market a few blocks from my home and filled up. Heading towards downtown, I turn on the radio and get one of those talk shows with a host who believes in aliens, conspiracies, liquid diets, herbal medicines, and horoscopes.

Though driving the speed limit, I cannot avoid hitting a cat that runs into my path; thus spreading its fur, innards and pain for a half block.

As I drive on pondering the fate of the cat, a gunshot rings out and a bullet shatters the rear window of my car.  The window explodes onto the back seat, and the bullet enters the radio, fatally wounding jabbering host in mid-sentence of a hemorrhoid medication commercial.

The radio, as well, dies an untimely death.

I can’t decide whether to pull over to examine the carnage or to get the hell out of there before the next salvo is fired.

I pull over. Before I can exit the vehicle, I’m surrounded by patrol cars and policepersons with guns and tasers drawn.

A voice from a megaphone barks, “Get out of the car with your hands so I can see them.”

I oblige.

“Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head.”

It was like doing a grotesque version of the Hokey Pokey, but I unhesitatingly comply.

Three officers with guns drawn approach me.

The megaphone bellows, “Put your hands on your head.”

They cuff me and put me in the back of a patrol car while the other officers on the scene confer.

My, “What’s this all about?” falls on deaf ears.

Occasionally an officer walks over to the car and glares at me.  I can’t hear what they’re saying, but it looks as though they think I’m a perpetrator rather than a victim. An officer gets into the car.

I ask, “What’s going on?”

“You’ll know soon enough.” he says.

Down at the station (early in the morning), in the booking room I hear the charges.  Someone has robbed and shot the clerk at the convenience market where I purchased my gas.  A witness took down my license plate number as I left the scene.

“May I ask who shot out my rear window?  The police or the robber?”  The question falls on deaf ears.

I am taken to a holding cell.  There are three others in the cell.

A ragged, rough shaven fellow says, “I’m Peter, a homeless Viet Nam vet who has broken no law.”

He is wearing a dirty black tee shirt inscribed with “That’s Entertainment” and has numerous tattoos covering each arm. The tattoos on his left arm are detailed and colorful.  The ones on his right arm appear to have been done by an amateur.

Peter caught me looking at his tattoos.

“You like them?’ he said.  “I did them myself.  Both arms.”

Peter suddenly hollers, “When did the jail become smoke free?  When did the jail become smoke free? When did the jail become smoke free?”

He turns to me and asks, “Did you hear that?”

“No,” I replied.

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

“This is John,” says Peter, pointing at a chubby white guy in a white short-sleeved shirt and jeans.  “He’s in for aiding and abetting prostitution.”

“John is not my name.  That’s the name Peter gave me.  I am a postman.  My wife is on her way down here to make bail.”

John appears frightened.  I can’t tell if it’s from being in jail or that his wife is on the way to get him.

“That’s Rufus,” says Peter, pointing to a very tall black man.

“Don’t call me Rufus!  I am Kingfish. What’s your name?”

“I’m Larry.  Larry Womack.”

I don’t know why I give my last name.  Nerves, I guess.

Kingfish bangs on the cell door and begins hollering over and over again, “Call me a lawyer! Call me a lawyer!”

After about a minute of his incessant hollering, I shout, “OK. OK. You’re a lawyer!”

Kingfish gets it but doesn’t think it’s funny. Peter, however, laughs like a plant in a comedy club – further infuriating Kingfish.

However, Kingfish pays no attention to Peter.  He wants a piece of me.  Kingfish lunges at me.

Peter jumps between us and shouts into Kingfish’s face, “If you touch him, I’ll kill you.  He saved my life in Viet Nam!”

John asks, “What was that all about?”

Peter said casually, “A military action to save the Vietnamese from the Viet Kong.  But that was long ago.”

Kingfish mumbles something and walks quietly over to a bunk and sits brooding

I go sit on the bunk next to Kingfish and say, “Sorry for the lame joke.”

“That’s OK.  My name really is Rufus, but it sounds so Negro.  I prefer Kingfish.”

Nice to meet you, Kingfish,” I say.  “Is everybody in your family as tall as you?”

“My grandfather was tall on one side, but he was short on the other.”

I restrain my humorous thought and answer, “Oh.”

“What are you in for?” asks Kingfish.

“Armed robbery,” I say sadly, “But not one I committed.  I was just at the wrong place at the right time.”

“Well, we’re all innocent in the eyes of the law until we are proven guilty,” says Kingfish.  “Do you have a lawyer?  If you don’t have a lawyer, the court will appoint one for you.  That’s how I got mine, the first time.”

“I didn’t think of that,” I reply. “Do I get one phone call?”

“Yes,” says Kingfish.  “Everyone is entitled to one phone call.  It’s the law.”

“Have you been in here before?”

“Don’t you watch TV, boy?”

“What are you in for Kingfish?”

“Another fight,” he says. I get into them all the time.  I’m manic-depressive.  But I can kick most people’s ass either way.”

A jailer appeared and asks, “Who is Larry Womack?”

Standing at attention, I formally reply, “That would be me, sir.”

“Come with me, Womack.”

“Nice to meet you fellows,” I say, as the guard escorts me away.

We go down a long hall and entered, what I recognized from TV as, an interrogation room.

“Wait here.  The detective will be here in a moment.”

Looking around the room, I find the TV camera and surmise that the microphone must be hidden beneath the tabletop. I start to look under the table and then remember that the mirror on the wall is a two-way.   And, realize, there are probably witnesses to the crime and detectives watching my every move from behind the glass.

A detective walks into the room and looks at me.

Stunned at who he sees, he shouts, “Larry Womack, what the hell are you doing here?”

I don’t recognize him.

“This must be some kind of detective ploy,” I think.

“I’m Curt.  Your cousin Steve’s son.”

“Curt?  Last time I saw you, you were twelve years old!  How did you recognize me?”

“You look just like my grandfather and most of the other Womacks.  What in the world is going on here?”

“I couldn’t sleep and decided to go for a drive.  Stopped for gas at a convenience store about the time it was being robbed and witnesses evidently gave my license number to the police. They shot out my rear window and hauled me down here.  You know the rest.”

“That sounds like dialogue from some TV detective show,” I think to myself.

Getting up, Curt says, “Give me a minute.  I’ll take care for this.”

Sitting there, I resist the temptation to wave at the people behind the glass.  I wouldn’t want to make matters worse.

Curt drives me home, and we talk about family.  I assure him that in deference to his kindness, I will attend the annual Womack summer picnic next year.

He says I can get my car from the impound lot after 10 AM.  It is already 7:30 AM. I pick up the morning paper from the driveway and enter my house.  I can hear the answering machine beeping.

“You have one message.”

The caller from last night says, “What happened to you?  I called back to tell you that your mother’s body was delivered to Philip and Robinson for embalming and that we are all going to meet there at one o’clock today.  Call me back as soon as you get this.”

The call is from a private, untraceable number.  Who is this and what is going on?

I make my bed, make coffee and turn on the Today Show. There is nothing in the paper about the evening’s event or anything in the obituaries that can give me a clue about the phone calls

Anne Curry reports that an airplane with 250 passengers ran off the end of a runway at LAX, injuring several passengers and killing a kid walking down Sepulveda Boulevard.

During the interview a well-meaning airport official says, “It could have been worse.”

It could have been worse repeats over and over in my head until I fall asleep on the couch.   Knocking at the door awakens me.  It is my neighbor who works as a greeter at Wal-Mart.

“I noticed when I went for my paper at 5:30 this morning that your car was not in the driveway.  I just then noticed that your front door was open, and your car was still gone.  Just checking on things.”

“I appreciate it, Mr. Lovelace.  I had a rough night, last night.  I’ll tell you about sometime.”

“I’m on my way to the store.  Can I get anything for you?”

“Do you have time to run me downtown?  I need to get my car at the impound lot?”

“The impound lot?”

“Yes.”

“I have time.”

“I’ll explain on the way down.”

Mr. Lovelace’s tan Buick LaSabre backs out of the driveway as I tell him my story of last night.  We pass the scene of the crime.  The store is open like nothing ever happened.

It costs me fifty dollars to get my car our of the impound lot.  I was fortunate to have my credit card.  The attendant tells me it is reimbursable.  That is if I am found innocent.  The carnage of my back window is still strewn across the backseat.  The radio hangs in shambles from the dash.  Driving home I realize the bullet that pierced the radio had passed no more than two inches from my shoulder.

I think, “It could have been worse.”

Most of the morning work traffic has cleared, so I decide to take the shortcut through town.  As I drive under the trestle on 8^th Avenue, I come up on a fight between two men in front of the homeless shelter.  The crowd observing the fight is spilling on to the street and blocks the road.

The homeless people holler encouragement to the combatants, and some even dance around with excitement, oblivious to the street traffic.  Suddenly several police cars arrive on the scene further blocking the progress of the now more than eight cars at a standstill.

The officers exit their vehicles.  The patrolman in the car next to me, however, remains in his vehicle.  He is discussing some matter with his dispatcher.   He then exits his car, approaches another officer and they come over to my car.

The first officer says to me, “Step out and away from your car!”

I quickly obliged as he says, “Now face the car and put your hands on the hood.”

The second officer begins to pat me down.

I can’t believe this is happening again.  “What’s going on officer?”

“This car was used in an armed robbery last night.  Is this your car?”

“Yes sir, but I can explain.”

“You can explain downtown,” he says. “Put him in the back of my car.”

The second officer puts plastic restraints on my hands and places me in the back of the patrol car.

The voice of the airport official from the incident at LAX plays over and over in my mind: It could have been worse.

The other officers restore calm in the street, and traffic begins to move.  One officer moves my car to the side of the road.  He is wearing rubber gloves.  I can see another officer escorting one of the combatants towards the car in which I am sitting.

“Oh shit!”  I say out loud. “It’s Kingfish!”

When the officer opens the door, Kingfish says, “Larry, what the hell they got you for this time?”

The officer looks at me. “You guys know one another?”

“Not exactly.”

Kingfish says, “Yeah, we shared a cell last night.”

The policeman closes the door and takes Kingfish to another car.

It takes over three hours this time to extricate myself from the strong arm of law.  The arresting officer suggests I get the rear window repaired quickly or expect additional intervention from law enforcement.

I drive back to my neighborhood and stop at the bank to cash a check at the drive-through.  My car is second in line, and the person in front evidently has a long transaction underway.  I look to my right and see a man in a wheelchair coming from a grocery up the hill, heading down towards the bank.

As he passes in front of the two waiting cars, I can see there is an oxygen tank on the back of the wheelchair along with sacks of recent purchases hanging from each handle.  The very small man has a light beard and wears a stocking cap.  He resembles Ernest T. Bass from the Andy Griffith Show.

The diminutive fellow heads for the anytime teller on the side of the bank.  I admire his spunk and ingenuity and project a lifestyle on him based on appearance and circumstance.

I think, this is one of those situations when Christians observe:  There but for the grace of God go I.

Not being one, I just continued to feel sorry for the man, instead of feeling smug or appreciative.

He puts his credit card in the machine and punches in a few numbers.  When the money comes out, a sudden gust of wind blows his transaction all over the paved area.

Like the Good Samaritan, I reach for my door handle to help the poor guy, when I see him take the oxygen hose out of his mouth, leap from the chair, and dash around the lot picking up his money.  He gets back in the wheelchair, replaces the oxygen hose, and speeds off in the opposite direction from whence he came.  As my car pulls up to the teller box, there is screeching of tires and a loud crash in front of the bank.

The teller shouts over the communication system, “Oh My God, somebody just ran over a crippled man in a wheelchair.”

Since I had yet to put my transaction in the pneumatic tube, I drive off toward the accident. A crowd has gathered around the little guy and his mangled wheelchair.  The oxygen tank lies beside him hissing its contents over the recently purchased baked beans, celery, bacon, peanut butter, white bread and carton of Salem filters.

The EMT’s siren can be heard in the distance and police cars begin to arrive.

“Oh shit,” I think. “How am I going to explain this?”

The mantra from the LAX airplane disaster played in my head:  It could have been worse.

Just then I recognize the person stepping from the mail truck parked near the fallen man.

I hear him tell the policeman, “I saw it all.”  It is John from the jail cell.

Another officer asks, “Whose car is that with the broken rear window?”

“It’s mine officer.”

“Were you involved in this accident?”

“No, I’m just an ignorant bystander.”

“A what?”

“I mean an innocent bystander.  I just drove up”

The officer walks away, but it seems as though he was not yet through with me.

I decide it is best for me to leave, just as the postman says, “I know you. You’re the guy from the jail.”

His voice trailing to a whisper.

“John?”

“That’s not my real name.  Did you see the accident too?”

“No I was on the other side of the bank cashing a check.”

“The car swerved to miss the school bus coming out of the church parking lot, the fellow lost control, and crossed the street striking the crippled guy.  It was awful. But it could have been a lot worse . . . if he’d struck the school bus.”

The first EMT’s to the scene are loading the limp body of the crippled guy into the truck.  A second unit is attending to the old fellow who caused the accident.  Like Mr. Lovelace, he was driving a tan Buick LeSabre.  The car’s airbag had deployed and covered the old fellows face with abrasions and white powder.

“You live around here?” asks the postman.

“1400 Haysboro.”

“Then you’re on my new route, 37216.  Mr. Lewis just retired and I’m replacing him.  I was just sitting here in the bank parking lot looking over a map of the area when all of this happened.”

Well, nice to see you again,” I said.  “Need to get going.”

The officers are busy interviewing witnesses, allowing me to leave without having to explain my busted window.  I head directly to the car window replacement shop up the road that I had passed many times.  As I pull up to the shop, I notice the sign that once read “Tony’s Auto Glass” was covered with a canvas sign that reads “Pedro’s Auto Glass.

“Buenos Dias, senior.  You have an accident?” asks the Hispanic man in the blue jumpsuit.

“Yes, I need you to replace the glass.  How much and how long?

‘Let me check to book, sir.   What kind of car is this?”

“It is an 04 Toyota Solara.”

“Mmmm, let’s see . . . . That will be $350 complete plus tax and I will have to order the glass for delivery.  It usually takes less than two hours for them to get it to me and about an hour to install it.  I should have it for you before closing time.

Realizing that I had forgotten to put my watch on last night, I ask the time.

“It’s a little bit after two o-clock.”

“Is it possible it won’t be ready by closing?” I ask.

“Anything is possible sir.  I will do my best, God willing.”

I don’t even ask the man for a ride home because he is alone in the shop and there are at least two cars ahead of mine.

“Do you have a card with your number?”

He hands me a card and asks for my number.  We shake hands and exchange greetings and I begin the three-mile or so trek back home.  I’m thinking I’ll get Mr. Lovelace to take me back to the glass shop later.

The first leg of my journey is alongside a cemetery.  There is a graveside service going on up near the front, near the gravesite of country music legend Roy Acuff.  I remember that my maternal grandmother, who died at the age of ninety-six, is buried in there alongside my grandfather.  He died decades before from, I was told, a bourbon attack in his backyard while going to feed his chickens.

On the other side of the street is the Veterans Cemetery.  My mother is buried there alongside my stepfather.  My bad knee begins to hurt.  Next on the other side is Kmart. I hate going to Kmart because I am the only person who goes there who drives in the direction of the arrows on the parking lot.

The last leg takes me through the parking lot of the convenience store where the incident occurred.  It is business as usual.  I want to go in for a soda but no telling what my appearance might stir up.   As I turn on to my street, an ambulance quietly passes and turns on to the main road.

Heading down the hill towards my house I can see neighbors milling around near my driveway.

“Oh shit,” I think.  “Don’t tell me the place is on fire.  Did I leave something on?”

“Hey, Larry!” shouts one of the bystanders.  “We’ve been looking for you.”

“What’s happened? I asked joining the crowd.

“Mr. Lovelace was found dead.  Sitting in his car. Poor old guy.  I hope he didn’t suffer.”

I exchanged condolences and a few memories with the bystanders and went into the house.  The answering machine was flashing.  Punching the button I heard, “Sorry.  You are the wrong Larry Womack.  It was another person with your name whose mother died.  Hope there was no inconvenience.”

Flopping into my easy chair, I thought, “It could have been worse” but was stopped in mid-sentence by a knock at my door.

“Hey! Larry, you in there?  It’s Peter the homeless vet from the jail. (pause)  You know.  The one with tattoos on both arms.”