Steeple Chase

(Photo courtesy of Dallas News)

From the raised platform of the train, I watch a large bird land on top of a high church steeple two blocks away. The bird defends its perch as a small winged creature (Satan?) spirals about for some minutes. I board the train.

At the next stop, the driver's voice warns passengers that we'll be delayed for a minute until he gets the all-clear. Two police officers race onto our car.

"He's still on here," says the confident policeman. "There's no way he got off."

I am wearing an oversized, black rain coat, and I assume that they are looking for the likes of me. Only the day before, a deranged (as usual) local man on a bridge had shut down traffic by telling an official that he had a bomb. The officer passes me, exits our car, then reappears several times. Four more officers appear. One is my neighbor, Rick Walton (not his real name). I consider catching his eye and waving (as if to say with a side glance at my audience, "Everyone, look! I know him! I have connections!") Someone cuts power and the officers jump down onto the center track to search under the platform. I marvel at the power of the police force, to petition the gods of electricity and, with seemingly little more than a nod and a neck-slicing gesture, cause its life-sustaining current to dry up. At last, one of the officers walks by, towing the alleged criminal (white male, mid-twenties, short-cropped blonde hair, or am I confusing him my Trenton panhandler?) by the handcuffs. Officer Rick passes, both hands occupied as he carries a box of stolen goods.

"Hey Wayne!" he says with the bemused expression of a man who has a dangerous job, and recognizes the absurdity of bad guys who invariably fail to realize that they will be punished eventually.

I return his greeting, "Hey, Rick!" and wish I'd addressed him as Officer Walton, for the edification of the passengers.

With a chuckle, he says to me, "Sorry about your delay."

"No problem," I insist. "Carry on." And I think, be careful out there.