Coffeehouse Chronicles: Vee, Dramamine, and the World's Most Conditional Ride-or-Die
Good morning, Chroniclers. Got yer cup? All right, let's get started.
I love telling you about my cast of characters. According to them, they're my friends. According to me, they're more like a traveling circus with retirement benefits.
Today's featured character is Vee.
Now Vee and I were supposed to be ride-or-die partners.
We worked the Hub together.
We carpooled.
We sat through staff meetings together.
And over the years I probably saved his life somewhere between 12 and 30 times.
Well...
Sort of.
Mostly I just supplied the emergency barf bags.
When they first opened Hub City to us, there were all kinds of jobs I didn't know existed. Being a gunslinger, I figured police work happened outside. You know, where the bad guys are capering.
Well, Tony Argott, God rest his soul, had other plans.
He put Vee inside handling Training and Scheduling.
Then he stuck me in Traffic.
Traffic.
For fifteen years I had been a copper and had probably written two whole collision reports.
Maybe.
Both came back from Kris Anderson bleeding so much red ink I was looking for crime scene tape.
I wasn't sure if he'd edited my report or investigated a homicide on it.
The thing looked like a Jamie Lee Curtis movie.
Anyway, Vee was inside too, running Training and Scheduling.
What nobody ever told me was that Vee apparently had the inner ear of a washing machine full of loose bricks.
The man gets motion sick looking at motion.
You could stir a glass of red Kool-Aid, and he'd start negotiating with his breakfast.
One day we had station business to handle.
I'm driving.
Vee's riding shotgun.
We're leaving the station when I suddenly remember I'd forgotten something inside.
So instead of turning left out of the driveway, I made a quick right to circle back into the lot.
Holy smokes.
The noise that came out of Vee sounded like a cat trying to cough up another cat.
I slammed on the brakes.
For ten seconds I sat there staring at him.
It felt like three hours.
Should I do the Heimlich?
Call for paramedics?
Roll Code 3 to St. Francis?
Start writing out next-of-kin notifications?
Eventually he stopped making seal noises and caught his breath.
I looked over and asked, "What in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks was THAT?"
"You turned right."
"Yeah..."
"I thought we were turning left."
"Okay..."
"You can't do that."
Now, Chroniclers, when somebody tells me I can't do something, I usually need an explanation.
"What do you mean I can't do that?"
"You can't turn right when somebody is expecting you to turn left."
I just stared at him. I was pretty sure I was being pranked. "You're joking."
"No."
The man was absolutely serious. His facial expression had all the humor of a tax audit.
"Vee, you’re gonna need to explain this to me."
"I get severe motion sickness."
"You get what, now?"
"Motion sickness."
"Let me see if I understand this, If I'm driving..."
Uh huh."
"And I turn right..."
"Uh huh."
"When you're expecting me to turn left..."
"Yep."
"...there's a chance I'm gonna see those chocolate chip pancakes that you devoured at breakfast from IHOP all over again?"
"Yep."
"So that's why you're wearing your wife's scrunchies on your wrists and those Band-Aid thingies behind your ears?"
"Yep."
"I also took three Dramamine before I left my office."
"Three?"
"THREE."
The man was basically one Benadryl away from hibernation.
I looked at him. "So what you're telling me is you've got the same condition that made the princess morning sick when she was pregnant?"
"Not exactly."
"Can I call you Princess?"
"No."
"Your Majesty?"
"No."
At that point I'd forgotten what I'd forgotten at the station and just drove us where we were supposed to be going.
But ever since then I've wondered how this guy survived field training in the mean streets of Bellfower.
Can you imagine?
"Okay, trainee, we're approaching an intersection. Can I make this left turn?"
"Hold on, sir. Let me prepare myself emotionally."
Fast forward to retirement.
Vee is always dropping the same lines.
"Hey bro, I got your six."
"Hey bro, me & you until the wheels fall off."
"Hey bro, I'm always here for you."
Sounds great.
Real inspirational.
The problem is that he is impossible to catch up with.
Right after retirement, he went back to work for another ten years, running some school for troubled youth up in Victorville.
Now don't you get all soft on me.
Everyone starts talking about what a wonderful guy he is.
"He helps kids."
"He's mentoring youth."
"He's changing lives."
Yeah, whatever ...blah, blah, blah.
What about ME?
This story is about ME.
Every time I'd ask him to grab a cup of coffee:
"Got a school board meeting."
"Got graduation."
"Got parent conferences."
"Got this kid with this problem."
"Got that kid with that problem."
Apparently half the children of Victorville were more important than my coffee schedule.
Eventually I gave up.
Then one day I thought I had him cornered.
He and the ball-and-chain spend their summers in Iowa because they've got another place out there. Yeah, I know that most people that you know have a place at the River, or up in Big Bear. They have a spot in Iowa. That's probably a story for another time.
I realized school was almost starting.
I figured I'd have to catch him between Iowa and education.
So I sent him a text.
"Hey Vee, how about coffee, or has school started already?" Figuring that I already knew the answer.
The three dots start dancing in my text box:
"I'm retired."
I nearly dropped my phone.
"WHAT?"
"Let's go."
The first coffee meetup?
Perfect.
The second one?
Wasn't bad either. He actually put me in touch with some guys I hadn't seen in a while, including our old sarge from the academy and the HB's background investigator.
"Hey bro, lunch with some of the fellas. You're invited."
Okay.
Progress.
Third invite?
Crickets.
Nothing.
Silence.
Four days later, I get a response.
FOUR DAYS!
Good thing I didn't need a kidney.
Or a blood transfusion.
Or directions out of a burning building.
I don't know, Chroniclers. For a guy who's always got my six, sometimes it feels like my six is in a different time zone.
Meanwhile...
Sam One is back at it again.
I don't know if it's a hobby or a disorder.
The man hunts eBay looking for military uniforms the way some people hunt garage sales.
Every few weeks he finds another one.
Next thing you know, he's dressed like a four-star general from some Eastern European republic I can't pronounce.
He's got medals.
He's got ribbons.
He's got braid.
He's got enough brass hanging off his chest to sink a canoe.
Then he takes a selfie.
But not a normal selfie.
No.
Sam One always makes the same face.
You know the face.
The "I've seen things" face.
The "the mission comes first" face.
The "I'm posing in my garage but pretending I'm at NATO Headquarters" face.
What really gets me is how he lures you in.
He'll text a photo.
It's two guys.
You stare at it.
They look kind of familiar.
Maybe.
Sort of.
You zoom in.
You squint.
You put on reading glasses.
You take off reading glasses.
You still don't know who in the heck you're looking at.
So naturally, you text him.
"Who's that?"
His response?
"Call me."
"WHY? Can't you just tell me."
"Nope."
Now you've got to call him. And that's exactly what he wanted all along.
Because the picture isn't really the point.
The point is he's got a 45-minute story involving those two guys, a motorcycle, a Marine Corps reunion, a cousin's wedding, two sisters, three counties, and a coincidence from 1994.
By the time he's done talking, you've forgotten why you called.
You've forgotten who the people in the picture were.
You've forgotten your Social Security number.
But somehow you've enjoyed the story anyway.
You gotta love Sam One.
Anyway, Chroniclers...You know what to do.
Drink 'em if you got 'em!
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