Short Story: Pot Holes

September 29, 2023 in Short Fiction 371

by Scott Bell

In the days before Sam Cable became a Texas Ranger, he served as a trooper with the Texas Department of Public Safety. Some days on the highway patrol were fraught with danger. Others…not so much.

***

My chin dipped and I jerked awake.

It was deep night in the Piney Woods. No moon, and with the Charger hidden up under brooding, old-growth trees, it was dark as a cavern on the far side of Pluto. The soft glow of the instrument panel, coupled with the crackle and murmur of cross talk on the radio, lulled me into a snooze as surely as a post-Thanksgiving meal on a cold, rainy day. Even the cool breeze from the air conditioning vents was not enough to keep me awake.

The dash-mounted radar sulked in silence, deprived of its prime purpose by lack of traffic on the deserted stretch of Highway 69. It was a good spot for popping speeders; a nice, long runway of straight two-lane asphalt connecting Tyler to Jacksonville, Texas. My hide was on an embankment next to the southbound lane with a good view in both directions, but totally invisible against the forest backdrop. At ten minutes past three in the morning, nothing drove past except for mosquitos and moths.

Until the glow of headlights from the south announced the approach of a potential customer. I sat a little straighter when the oncoming lights jiggered from side to side. As it came within a hundred yards the radar chirped and lit up with a weak little 26 MPH. This guy was going about forty under and weaving around as if following a snake down twisty creek. Before I had a chance to light him up, the car veered left and trundled off the highway. It dipped into the drainage ditch and climbed up toward the trees, where it very gently tapped the trunk of a pine and came to a complete stop.

I threw the cruiser into gear and keyed my mic. “State Four-Twelve to dispatch.”

“Go ahead, Four-Twelve.”

“10-50 on Highway 69, mile marker 156. Motorist rolled off the road. Possible 10-55.” A car accident with a potentially intoxicated driver.

“10-4, Four-Twelve. Do you need back up, or an ambulance?”

“Not at this time. Mark me as, ah, 10-46.” I gave the code for Motorist Assist rather than traffic stop, as this could be a medical issue rather than a drunk driver. Pigs could whistle Dixie from their butt, too.

I rolled up on the stalled car and hit it with about a million candlepower of police lights, bathing it in blinding white, with disco flashers of blue and red. A big guy, built like a walrus, with a bald head and a sheathe of neck hair, poured out of the car. He fell to his knees, one hand raised against the light.

“Whoa, buddy,” I warned. “Stay right there and show me your hands.”

“Help me!”

I notified dispatch that I needed an ambulance, after all, then I approached cautiously, one eye on the beefy fellow kneeling by his open door, another eye peeled for any hidden surprises inside the vehicle, and a third eye on the drapery of dark forest beyond.

I needed more eyes.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

“Get me to a hospital, man.” Walrus-boy appeared to be part of a sect indigenous to East Texas—poorly educated, poverty stricken, permanently addicted to welfare and methamphetamine, and proudly ignorant of the finer points of hygiene. “I OD’d. I done killed myself.”

“OD’d on what?”

“Brownies. I ate too many brownies.”

“Duncan Hines? Or Sara Lee?”

“Huh?” Bleary eyes looked up from beneath shaggy brows. “Wow, you’re tall. Are you a giant?”

I’ve had conversations with sugar-spiked four-year-olds that had more continuity, but the story unfolded that Walrus-boy, aka Andrew Lee Liggers, had baked an entire one-ounce baggie of marijuana into a pan of brownies. He wasn’t feeling a buzz after one brownie, so he proceeded to eat another…and another…until the entire pan had been consumed. Pot takes longer to manifest a high when eaten versus smoked, so Liggers had no idea how lit he was until about ten minutes after the last brownie crumb had disappeared. After that things went a bit…psychedelic.

Liggers sat back against his car and moaned. “I leff my body and seen myself lyin’ there on the floor.”

“Where’d the pot come from?” I asked.

“Um…I found it. On side of the road.”

“You found some pot beside the road and decided to bake it into brownies.”

“Yessir.”

“This seemed like a smart thing to do?”

“Well…um…not in retterspeck, no. I think I’m dyin, man. You call an am’blance?”

“It’s on the way.”

“Maybe if I threw up.” Liggers turned red-rimmed eyes to me. “Can you help me throw up?”

“No, I will not help you throw up.”

“Stick a finger down my throat, is all. I can’t do it myself.”

“I’m not sticking anything down your throat. I have no idea where your throat has been.”