It was a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon as I drove my van into my driveway and parked in the carport next to the garage beside my house in Spanaway, Washington. My wife, my daughter, my dog Molly, and I had just returned from getting a load of wood up in the mountains. As I walked around to the side of the van to open the door, a Pierce County Sheriff’s deputy pulled up in the cul-de-sac. I thought to myself, “What in the hell does this donut chaser want?” I walked over to the patrol cruiser as the Sheriff’s deputy was getting out of the car. The deputy was a rather short, rotund guy with pudgy cheeks. The buttons on his uniform shirt were straining to the point of popping off. He saw me and my family, and he immediately asked me one question, “Does that dog bite?” I replied, “Who? Molly? No! Here Molly. Khmer girl. Sit. Stay. See, she’s my bird-dog and companion, but she’s my daughter’s playmate. You see my daughter over there? I wouldn’t let a biter near her. Does that answer your question?” “I reckon so. I noticed she’s well-trained too.” “She is. Unlike some people I know.” “Exactly what in the hell does that mean.” “Well, Sergeant, you’ve rudely walked up here and asked me if my dog bit before you even bothered to introduce yourself or state your business. May I remind you you’re on my property. By the way, this is a donut free zone.” “Exactly what in the hell does that mean?” “Kolby’s Donut House is about two miles back on Pacific Avenue. You’ll find all the donuts you want there. But we don’t stock donuts. So, if you’re here for donuts, you came to the wrong place.” “What makes you think I’m looking for donuts?” “Well, that’s what donut chasers do. They chase donuts. And judging by your physical build. I’m guessing you chase one helluva-lot of donuts. My question is, do you ever catch any?” “Boy, you got a smart mouth.” “Sergeant, that’s where you made your second mistake. Calling me boy. I outrank your sorry ass. I’m a Captain in the United States Army. Now, is there a reason for this visit?” “Yes, there is. Do you own a blue 1968 Chevrolet Impala?” “I do.” “Where is it?” “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but unless somebody stole it, it’s in my garage. You see, we just got back from the mountains. We were up there getting a load of wood in my van. Would you care to check the van to verify my story?” “No. That won’t be necessary.” “Oh, it is necessary. I insist. You may have thought that was a request. It wasn’t. Please walk over and have a look inside my van.” The Sheriff’s deputy and I walked over to the van together and I showed him the wood stacked up inside the van. I said, “I pulled in just a minute before you got here. You must have seen me opening the door to this van.” He replied, “I did. And I thought that was a little off.” “Why did you think that was a little off?” “Well, we received a report of a hit-and-run at the Safeway down there on 159th and Pacific Avenue in the Safeway parking lot. The hit-and-run vehicle was identified as a blue 1968 Chevrolet Impala.” “Okay. What license plate number did the victim give?” “The victim didn’t give us a license plate number?” “Oh really!?! Let me see if I got this straight. The victim didn’t give you a license plate number? Okay. So, what makes you think it’s my Chevrolet Impala that caused the hit-and-run?” “Well, the victim sort of gave us your name and address.” “Oh really?!? And you didn’t find that in the least bit suspicious? Don’t tell me, let me guess, your first name is Sheer-luck. I’m also betting that you recently applied for detective. Let’s just have a look at my Chevrolet Impala.” I opened the garage and started the car and backed it out of the garage into the sunlight. Then, I shut off the engine and got out of the car. Next, the Sheriff’s deputy and I walked completely around the car looking for signs of accident damage. The only sign of body damage that the car had was the paint damage from the volcanic eruption that the car had from when we bought it. I looked at the Sheriff’s deputy and asked, “Well, are you satisfied? This car didn’t cause any hit-and-run accident today, or any other day.” The deputy looked at me kind of dumbfounded and replied, “I’m really sorry about that. It’s obvious that this car didn’t cause that accident. There’s not even a scratch on the bumper.” “Exactly. It had this paint damage from the volcanic eruption. But that’s it. That’s why I bought it. This car is clean.” “Okay. Again, I’m really sorry to have bothered you.” “No problem deputy. You should go down and check out Kolby’s and get yourself some donuts.” Right about then, my wife came out with a couple of cold sodas. She handed one to me and one to the Sheriff’s deputy. He thanked her for the soda, and I could tell that he really appreciated it. Then, he got into his patrol cruiser and drove off. As he drove off, I wondered who had reported my Chevrolet Impala as a hit-and-run vehicle. It had to be someone who knew us and knew we had that car. Cuz we had just purchased that car a couple of weeks ago. That fiasco with the Sheriff’s deputy had proved to be just another exercise in futility.
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