You Were An Upside Down Pumpkin
“Okay. Here it goes…,” Bullock said as I unlocked the patrol car and opened the back door. I placed the certificate and a small medal on the back seat.
I shut the door and looked across the roof of the car and Bullock was staring at me from the other side.
“Are you going to tell me this embarrassing moment story or not?” I asked.
“I was waiting until I had your undivided attention,” he said as he opened his door.
I opened my door and got behind the wheel.
Bullock got in and reached across with his left hand and placed it atop my right hand that was trying to buckle my seat belt.
“You let me know when you’re ready to fully commit yourself to this conversation,” he said as he patted the top of my hand before moving it back to his side of the car.
“Don’t ever touch me again,” I said.
“Oh, you liked it, so just settle down,” Bullock said as he lowered the visor and flipped open the mirror and began to check his teeth.
“Why do you always do that?” I asked.
“Do what?” he innocently asked back.
“Do disgusting things in my car.”
“Disgusting? I don’t do anything disgusting.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked in amazement. “You’re always spitting, and checking your teeth, and you just do other disgusting things.”
“So looking to see if I have food in my teeth is now disgusting? You’re a piece of work.”
“Me? How am I a piece of work? I’m not the one who does weird things in your car.”
“First off,” Bullock said as he turned toward me.
There was genuine sadness in his eyes. I honestly thought he wasn’t happy with me. What a sissy.
“There is so much wrong with your attitude today,” he said. “You’re upset you got recognized for solving a crime? That in itself is weird. I didn’t even get an award and did as much as you did. You don’t see me pouting.”
I began to pull out of the parking space at the Stonington City Hall.
“Secondly, and quite frankly, more importantly, you’re being mean-spirited and cranky,” he continued in a huff.
“Fine,” I said in a tone that said I was annoyed with this conversation but that he had approval to proceed. “Go ahead.”
“Oh, thank you for allowing me to address my dental issues,” he snapped back.
“Not that,” I said. “I mean go ahead and tell me your story about an embarrassing moment.”
“It seems like a year ago when I first brought the subject up, to be honest.”
“You’re such a baby,” I said. “It’s literally been only a few minutes.”
“Well, it seems much longer than that,” he said as he rolled down his window.
“Don’t you dare!” I snapped at him.
“What?” he asked as innocently as he could before swallowing.
We stopped at an intersection and waited for a couple cars to pass in front of us who had the right of way.
“Well, I’m not sure if it was something I ate or if I was just sick that day,” Bullock began.
“If this is a story about you throwing up in your mom’s Tupperware bowl, I already heard that one,” I said.
“No, it is not,” he said with agitation.
When the cars finished passing, we turned right and continued on our way.
“I’ve never really been able to figure out what was the cause, but suffice it to say, I wasn’t feeling well,” he continued.
“Will this be a long story?” I asked knowing the answer already.
To Bullock, there is not a short story. His stories are rarely linear. They’re like an audio presentation of that kid’s path from school to home in Family Circus comic strip.
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, if it’s going to be a long drawn out story, we’ll drive around for a few,” I said. “But if it’s quick, and I doubt it will be, we’ll head straight to the station and you can finish before we get there, I’ll park and then we’ll go inside.”
“What if it takes longer than all of that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said as I scanned the area making sure nothing nefarious was afoot. “I guess it depends.”
“I mean, I’ll feel bad if I don’t finish and we have to sit in the car.”
“Will you?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“I can’t imagine it’ll be the first time you finished and then just sat in a car.”
He just startled to chuckle. I said it as a joke. A put down. A little verbal jab. It backfired. Based on his reaction, he was not picturing it as negatively as I had initially hoped he would have.
“Well we’re going to be at the station in a few minutes, why don’t we just roll the dice,” I said trying to move on from the uncomfortable nature of the moment.
“I’ll make it short,” he gladly said.
I was already 0-for-1 on the day. No sense going hitless. I let his comment go unanswered. But, boy, did I have a doozy.
“I’m sitting in class back in third grade,” he continues. “Mrs. White. Really old. Like I think they built the school around her kind of old.”
I took a deep breath. Probably more like a huff. I knew this wasn’t going to be a short story.
Bullock continued, “Mrs. White was the type of teacher who had rules for everything.”
“We kind of work in a profession based on rules,” I said.
“Laws, Brody, ours are laws,” he condescendingly said. “These were stupid rules.”
“Such as?” I asked.
“Well, the important one for this story is only one person could use the restroom at a time,” he indignantly said. “So I had to go to the bathroom. And Melissa was already using the bathroom.”
“Wow, that really sucks,” I jokingly said. “And you lived to tell about it?”
“Well, guess what?” he defiantly asked. “Turns out I had to go really bad. Like diarrhea bad.”
It was at that moment that I didn’t like where this was heading. I knew deep in my heart that I shouldn’t let him finish this story. I wondered if having to explain to Captain Alex Leonard as to why I catapulted myself from a moving patrol car was the better of the two options against listening to the rest of Bullock’s story.
There was a long drawn out pause. I don’t think either one of us wanted him to continue the story at this point. At least I knew I didn’t.
We pulled onto Walnut Street and I could see the station. I could see a parking spot that would release me from this hell. With any luck, the silence will remain until I could park and escape.
“So I crapped my pants,” he shockingly said. “Yep, all over my chair and the floor.”
I was rendered speechless. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to run.
“What…did…you do?” I slowly asked as I pulled into a space, put the car in park and turned the ignition off.
“Well the point was made,” he said. “She realized the error of her ways and then allowed me to go to the bathroom to clean myself.”
“That is embarrassing,” I admittedly said as I had so many emotions swirling about in my head.
I wanted to laugh at him. I wanted to empathize with him. Mostly, I wanted to laugh at him. I didn’t.
“That’s not the worst of it,” he added.
Oh dear Lord. There’s more. I’m not going to be able to contain this much desire to laugh.
“I had to wear my baby sitter’s son’s clothes the rest of the day,” he said as if I would be in agreement that only added to the horror of the story.
The internal laughter subsided and gave way to confusion.
“I’m sorry?” I asked. “How is that worse than pooping yourself in your third grade class?”
“That dude was a dork and the clothes didn’t even match,” he incredulously said. “I don’t even think what they made me wear was ever fashionable. Not even in the 80s when they bought them.”
That reminded me of one of my first little league photos. I was so pleased to wear my uniform, but since it was a little cold that day, my mom – a baseball novice – forced me to wear a long-sleeve shirt under my jersey. A dazzling white dress shirt with collars the size of plane wings. I felt stupid at the time. But I have the picture on a wall in my apartment. And whenever I look at it, it reminds me that even though it was slightly misplaced my mother really loved me and wanted what was best for me. In her way.
“I had to wear an orange He-man shirt with green corduroy pants,” he said, bringing me back into his horror story.
I burst into laughter. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“You were an upside down pumpkin,” I chortled.
Bullock threw his hands in the air and said, “And now you know.”
“Wait a second?” I asked. “How did you end up getting these clothes? Did he have extras or something?”
“Nah, my babysitter was kind enough to drive up to the school with them. They were still ugly even if the gesture was nice.”
“Well you survived, and that’s what’s important,” I said.
Bullock sat there. Waiting. He knew something was coming. I applauded his patience.
“Now let’s go inside and do some police work,” I said. “Okay, punkin’?”
“You’re an ass,” Bullock said.
