[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. This, True Story, column may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
The drive was silent for the most part–that is, if you didn't count the occasional giggle emitting from the coked-up Tom.
“Will you be coming in with me?” Edgar asked. “This owner can be a real ball-buster.”
Tom said nothing. He lifted his left leg, stretched it over to the gas pedal and stomped on it–holding Edgar's foot down. The car careened through traffic.
“Tom! Stop!”
They blasted through a red light, narrowly missing a school bus–the children's screams fading in the rear view mirror. A siren came to life behind them.
“Tom, the police!”
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]
Tom lifted his foot. Edgar immediately braked and pulled to the curb. This was what he'd been waiting for; the universe had opened a door of escape, and he was going to walk right through. All he had to do was give Tom to the policeman, and that sociopathic bully would be arrested and fired, for sure.
Tom reached into his jacket, extracted a fat bindle, and then tucked it into Edgar's top left pocket.
“You let that ride, Edgar,” Tom said. “And keep your fucking mouth shut.”
An officer had walked up to the car. “You wanna roll that window down?”
“Yes, yes,” Edgar stuttered as he rolled down the glass.
“What the hell were you doing back there? Have you been drinking?”
“No, of course not. I haven't been,” Edgar said. He reached into his pocket, bravely pulled out the cocaine and pointed at Tom. “He gave me this. He made me hold it. He made the car go.”
The officer leaned down and looked into the vehicle. His eyes stopped on Tom; a quick smile followed. “Is that right?” he asked, turning back to Edgar. “License and registration, please.” Edgar began to exit the vehicle, but the officer stopped him: “And stay in the car.”
[
As the officer walked back to his cruiser, Tom reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a mini bottle of vodka, took a quick sip, and then sprinkled the remaining contents over Edgar–liberally dowsing his crotch.
“What the fuck, Tom?”
“That's the 'fuck,' bitch.”
The officer walked back to Edgar's vehicle and asked him to exit. Tom followed suit. He addressed the officer. “How's it going there, Bud?”
“Oh, real good, Tom. Are you still attending that AA meeting at the church?”
“You bet. Clean and sober for six months.” Tom held up an AA key tag and nodded toward the stunned Edgar. “I've been trying to straighten this one out, but
. . . oh, well.”
The officer put a hand on Edgar's shoulder and pushed him down on the car. He brought out his cuffs and secured the poor man.
“But I didn't . . .” Edgar pleaded. “It's him; he did it.”
“Denial,” Tom said. “It's not just a river in Egypt, Edgar. But don't worry; I'll finish up the route and tell Evans you were . . . delayed. Are the keys in it?”
Edgar, the bitch, nodded his head.
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