She waved, but not to say hello; she was trying to get me out of her way. Uncomprehending, I stood there like a lump, jaw slack, gears turning in the skull, trying to figure out if I knew this girl. She didn’t even try to warn me again – bumped hard into my right shoulder, practically knocked me to the ground.

Perhaps I was asking for it, but I was irritated nonetheless. “Where’s the fire?” I yelled as she continued down the trail towards the setting sun.

“Pardon,” she muttered, without stopping or turning around. She disappeared into the brush as quickly as she had appeared – leaving crushed twigs and grass, and me, in her wake.

I didn’t see her again until almost a year later – although I had learned from neighbors that her name was Jill and that she lived about a mile down the road. We ran into each other – only figuratively this time – at the market. She was carrying a large basket full of potatoes; I was carrying a chicken.

“Afternoon,” I said as I approached her. She looked up at me curiously. “You probably don’t remember me, but –“

“I remember you,” she said. “You’re the fella what I almost knocked down a year ago. Sorry ’bout that.”

“Where were you going in such a hurry?” I asked.

“I was trying to make it home by curfew,” she said. “I get in a lot of trouble if I’m out too late.”

“I hope you made it.”

“I seem to remember I did.”

We shared a smile.

I formally introduced myself. She already knew who I was, in much the same way that I found out who she was. I had figured correctly that she was about five years younger than me. I looked at her face and her hair and her eyes and thought about how I’d never seen anything like her before. I asked if I could take her to dinner. Her response was that she was three months married.

Embarrassed and disappointed, I made up an excuse to leave – in the process forgetting to do the task which brought me to the market in the first place – and began the long trudge home.

I only saw her once more, seven years later – although it was a rather one-sided experience, it being her funeral. She died while birthing her fourth child. The whole town came out to the funeral, as she apparently had become very active in the community and in the church. I had moved away some years earlier, and now had a wife and child of my own, but we were in town when it happened. Her husband – who turned out to be a good man – saw that I was one of the largest men there and asked for my help as a pallbearer.

It was winter and a recent snow had just melted, and as we carried the casket through the cemetary I slipped on a dark patch of ice, falling backward but retaining my grip, thus jerking it out of the hands of my fellow pallbearers and bringing it crashing down on me. I broke my right leg and was unconscious for three days.

After I was carted off to the hospital, Jill was committed to the ground without further incident.

A couple of decades later, my oldest son wed Jill’s fourth child, a daughter. Jill’s widower and I became great friends. He never remarried.

I died a few years afterwards, just after my second grandchild was born.

Hello. I am an idiot who stays up late for no good reason. Nice to meet you. This is my wife, Frieda. She continues to diet even though she’s ten pounds below her desired weight. My son, Norbert, sitting over there on the couch, tells girls that he is in love with them on the first date. And my daughter, Ariadne, is busy at the bookshelf making sure all the spines are flush with one another. Yes, it’s just the four of us. My job at the balloon factory keeps food on our table, but it’s really Frieda’s successful pet photography business that brings us the finer things in life. So we’re doing okay. You should drop by for dinner sometime. I make these killer burritos that Frieda won’t eat because the’re fatty, and Norb won’t eat because he’s allergic to bean paste, and Ariadne will only eat if she can dip them into a small glass bowl of ketchup. Anyone else who can appreciate my cooking is always welcome. Hey, maybe you and me could play a few holes tomorrow. Let me know, I’ll see if I can get the guys to come along.

I received a parking ticket this morning. I aim to contest it, as the block I was parked on had no signs anywhere indicating any sort of restrictions, at least on my side of the street. The man is trying to make a monkey out of me, but I won’t take the banana. Dig?

I saw a report on the news this morning about a woman filing a complaint against a police officer. It seems that the officer broke into her apartment during some sort of drug bust, and caught red-handed, she asked if there was anything she could do to save herself jail time. He told her she could do him a favor; she thought he meant rat on a supplier. Instead, he took her upstairs and requested she perform a sexual act on him. Afterward, she managed to save trace amounts of his bodily fluids, which she then brought forth as evidence in her complaint. Now, I don’t condone at all law enforcement abusing their power for sexual favors, and I would like to see this bastard prosecuted. But, of course, this serious and not at all funny story reminds me of a whimsical story handed down to me one drunken evening on the Rue de Faible, by an elderly gentleman who insisted he was my “Great-Aunt Gene”. Allow me to set the scene: a secluded country interstate. And the players: a hapless yet attractive reckless female driver, and a police officer, of the corrupt variety.

And so the story goes:

Cop: License and registration please, ma’am.

Woman: How fast was I going, officer?

Cop: You were going ninety miles per hour in the thirty mile an hour zone.

Woman: That’s very fast.

Cop: Isn’t it?

Woman: I didn’t see any signs posted.

Cop: You ran them all over.

Woman: No.

Cop: I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a ticket.

Woman: Please, officer, it’s my first offense.

Cop: Says here it’s your thirtieth offense this year.

Woman: But it’s my first this month.

Cop: [writes out ticket]

Woman: How much is the ticket for?

Cop: Seven thousand dollars.

Woman: You’re kidding.

Cop: Wish I were. The Chicago Department of Revenue needs that money to build private orphanages for the children of deceased unwed teenaged mother millionaires.

Woman: Is there any way I can get out of the ticket?

Cop: Ordinarily, no. But since I am a police officer of the corrupt variety, that provides us several options. First, you can give the money directly to me.

Woman: I don’t have my checkbook.

Cop: Just as well, as I’d prefer cash. Second, I could make you strip down to your underwear and walk along the yellow line in the middle of the road, while I follow closely in my patrol car and yell humiliating things through the loudspeaker.

Woman: I saw that one on Dateline.

Cop: Me too. That’s where I got the idea.

Woman: What else?

Cop: Third, you could perform a sexual act on me.

Woman: Which sexual act?

Cop: Ladies’ choice.

Woman: How about a kiss?

Cop: No.

Woman: Anything else?

Cop: Fourth, you could just pay the ticket.

Woman: Seven thousand dollars… I don’t know…

Cop: Seven thousand dollars, thirty dollars, five hundred dollars, whatever.

Woman: I can’t afford it. I have children to feed. I’ll do option number three.

Cop: You did hear me rule out the kiss, right?

Woman: What about a French kiss?

Cop: Your two choices are this [makes obscene gesture with hands] or this [makes obscene gesture with hands and face].

Woman: What about this [makes obscene gesture with hands and nose]?

Cop: Honestly, lady! I do have some standards.

Woman: Fine then. I’ll do the second one.

Cop: Fine. Before we begin I would like to ask you to be courteous and please wait 24 hours after this incident before you report my criminal behavior to my superiors. Can you do that?

Woman: I suppose.

Cop: Also, I must ask that you refrain from collecting any bodily fluids as evidence, as that would void our agreement and the ticket would be issued. Do you agree to that?

Woman: Fine.

Cop: Can you sign this affadavit to that effect?

Woman: [signs affadavit]

Cop: Hooray! Evil wins the day!

Am I being insensitive?