Why Me?

Cop Lights

A “funny” thing happened tonight.

Shari went to bed earlier than usual tonight, and even though I’m very tired, I’m nowhere near sleepy. I finally feel like I have the slightest bit of energy for the first time since Saturday. There’s no way I’m going to bed, right?

So I ran an errand: I filled the car up with gas. Then I went to Wal-Mart. Then I drove down Airline. Then I drove down Texas Street. Keep in mind that I’m aware that for anyone not associated with the Bossier City area, those street names mean absolutely nothing to you; don’t worry though–it’s nowhere close to being relevant to the story.

Anyways, I make my final stop in a parking lot close to my house. There’s a Sonic, several small stores, a Brookshire’s, and a Goodwill in the area. It’s a well-lit area, and I wanted to get some “unique” night shots, so I start snapping away. I wish I could show a few of the pictures in this post, but due to my computer still being MIA until the power cord arrives, I’m typing on Dad’s archaic laptop at the moment (Shari’s computer died yesterday).

So I’m literally getting down on the ground in this massive, empy parking lot, taking stupid shots. Then I make a mistake: I went into the back alley between the stores to see if there’s anything else that looks cool back there. I find one decent area, so I snapped two shots and got back in the car. Off I go, back to the house…

Not so fast, Mr. Dean!

As I turn onto the road leading to my house, I see bright lights flashing behind me. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I didn’t do anything!”

I get my license and insurance card out, then turn on a light so the cop can see me before he gets to the window; I didn’t want to make him wonder if I had something up my sleeve in the dark (this road is pitch black). He gets to the car before I can get my registration out, so I asked him if he needed my registration. “No, sir,” he replied with a suspicious look. “Just your I.D., please.”

Then I noticed something else weird; there was a “large,” moustached man decked out in camouflage standing behind him. Okay, the guy was huge, and he was peering at me from behind his thick, wirey, Jeff Foxworthy ’stache like I had just killed his family.

I asked, “Did I do something wrong?”

The officer, a young, slick-headed guy in his late 20’s said, “Well…we’re not sure, Mr. Dean.”

“Is it about the pictures in the parking lot?”

“Well, you tell us.”

“Oh!” I grasped at my camera. “Do you want me to show you what I was doing?”

I started flicking through the pictures. The cop and camo-stache looked at my XTi as I showed them pictures of overturned buggies, messed up signs, highly-reflective puddles, and every other pointless thing you could imagine. The cop started chuckling. Moustache did not.

“You’re a photographer?” the cop asked.

“Kind of,” I nodded back. “I have a bit of trouble sleeping, so I find weird ways to pass time. I’m really sorry about causing any trouble. Y’all thought I was ‘casing the joint?’”

“Exactly,” he laughed. “Hey, go back to that one!” He pointed at the camera, wanting to see the upside-down handicapped sign. “I like that one, man,” he gestured as he talked. “Well, you have a good one, Mr. Dean.”

“Y’all too.”

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