Working From 7 Till 11 Kinda Makes My Life a Drag

by pjmcbride

If you don’t want to read whining, move along. But if you treasure every word that drops from my ruby-red lips (as my old English professor used to say), soldier on.

I went in to work tonight (well, technically, yesterday, but I haven’t been to bed yet, so it doesn’t count) for 4 hours’ overtime. As the old blues song says, working from 7 till eleven kinda makes your life a drag, although I don’t imagine he meant 7pm-11pm. And I actually like these mini-shifts. It feels like I’m just stopping in for my own amusement. I’d figured on going to the Hilltop before work. Maybe I’ll order fried chicken, I thought dreamily. But I found out they’d be closed on Memorial Day. I know! I thought. I’ll get one of those roast chicken dinners that always tempt me at Wesselman’s. So I stopped by there on my way in, and found that although the store was open on Memorial Day, the chicken department was not. Deeply disappointed, I went on to work, settled down, and one of the first transmissions I received from an officer was, “If I’m clear for a meal, I’ll be at Grandy’s.” “If I’m clear, I’ll be enroute there too,” someone else piped up. I wanted to say, “Negative! You are not clear! If I can’t have fried chicken, no one else can either!” I was thoroughly sulled-up, an old country saying I got from Rom. (And if you ask him, “What old country?” he’ll say, “Any old country!”) Well, at least I didn’t burn my popcorn like I did the other night. And if you’re wondering how I got so very entitled, it’s because Rom spoils me, as he would say, egregiously.

Stuff I got away with: I sent an officer to check out a branch fallen in the road. Having checked it out, he informed me, “It’s still attached to the tree. There’s nothing I can do with it. Notify the proper authorities.” As it happens, that’s what they (and by “they” in this case, I usually mean the fire department) say when they deal with a deceased person. So I was momentarily nonplussed, thinking, What are these authorities of whom you speak? Then no less a personage than my supervisor said, “I dare you to tell him you’ve contacted the coroner.” So I got on the air and said, “The coroner is enroute.” There was a long silence, and then he said, “Am I clear for a meal?” Luckily, he didn’t mention Grandy’s. Now, I had just been thinking that it’s surprising that I and a certain other officer who shall be nameless haven’t gotten in trouble yet for being, shall we say, frivolous on the air occasionally, but in this case, the supervisor told me to do it! I only wish more people had noticed it.

In other news, I was reading at church last Sunday, and after Mass, someone stopped me and said, “Can I ask you a question?” “Yes,” I said warily. “Do you work at Central Dispatch?” I admitted it. “My wife and I recognized your voice!” I’ve also had that happen in the checkout line at the above-mentioned Wesselman’s. See, we’re all radio personalities! I should have told him, “And I have a blog you might be interested in,” but announcing new posts on Facebook is all the pushiness I can handle. And that’s why I will never get anywhere in life.

English: Fried chicken.

English: Fried chicken. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)