To begin, I have a dog named Fasha. She's usually a very well-behaved dog, except, when we first got her, she made a habit of running out of the open front door when she ever got the chance, running down the street and around the neighborhood. This was never a particularly bad thing, she'd always find her way back. And on this day, it would be the begin of many things to come.
Shannon was over and, while she was leaving, she left the door open and Fasha made a run for it, bolting out of the door and around the corner. Shannon, being the good friend she is, decided she wait with me on the front porch until the prodigal dog made her way back home.
It was a sunny summer day like many in Florida. Very pleasant. PLEASANT, that is, UNTIL A PATROL CAR PARKED ITSELF IN FRONT OF MY DRIVEWAY. Yes, a patrol car, that lovely Crown Vic that all policemen drive.
This particular Crown Vic Patrol Car rolled its window down and kindly asked (as kindly as you can from a distance, at least) to speak to someone with a license. I stepped forward, because Shannon and I were at my house. It just made sense at the time. Shannon, however, did stay nearby.
"Do you know an Anthony Pucket? Picket? Pecket?" the officer inquired.
"Pucket," Shannon and I harmonized back. I then took the conversation over, saying, "Yes, sir, I know Pucket."
"Well, your friend's been pulled over for possession of marijuana and his license has been suspended. I'm going to need you to hop into the patrol car so I can take you down there and you can pick up his car. It's not very far from here."
Of course, you can't refuse such a proposition. It's not really a question of "can you", it's more of a statement of "get your butt in the car right now." So, I went with Officer Obie (that's his name for right now) and he drove me to the quote scene of the crime, end quote. For those of you who have never experienced the back of a patrol car: Lucky you. They are not comfortable in any way, shape, or form. There is no leg room to speak of and the seats are hard leather with very stiff, straight backs.
On the way to the scene of the crime, Officer Obie struck up a very unusual bit? of conversation, starting off by asking, "Are you good friends with Anthony?"
Not being exactly the best of friends with Anthony, but more of an acquaintence, I replied, "No, sir, I'm not good friends with Anthony."
Officer Obie continued, "Really? That's not what he said. He told me he buys his marijuana from you!"
Author's Note: I do no kind of drug, I do not drink alcohol, I do not smoke. Story continues.
"He said he likes his marijuana homegrown and that you have a marijuana garden in your back yard."
Only slightly confused, I replied, "No, sir. I don't grow marijuana. I don't sell it."
"Do you smoke marijuana?"
"No, I don't."
As it turns out, officers are allowed to ask any questions they want, even imply that someone has given them some help, even if it isn't true. It's a very odd and scary experience.
We arrived at the scene and this is what the scene was: Two patrol cars (now three with our arrival) with Pucket's car inbetween them and a few cops mingling on the sidewalk. Pucket was just being told to "Please watch your head" as we arrived, hands cuffed behind his back. Officer Obie dropped me off and I stood there waiting to be told what to do. Officer George and Officer Bob (as they are called only in this story) approached me for my briefing.
Officer George offered, "Now, Anthony is going to give you some things that he can't take. He's going to jail and he can't have his knife or lighter there, so you're going to take them. And then you're going to take Anthony's car. His friend is coming and you'll follow him to drop it off at his house."
I was then ushered over to the patrol in which Pucket was crouched over in. If I had been uncomfortable in the back of the patrol car without cuffs on, Pucket was utterly miserable. He had to use all of what little space he had in there. Pucket, in a very saddening way, told me that his dog needed to be looked after and that the officers would give me his knife and lighter (Officers Bob and George didn't have them, but another pair did). He was ever grateful that I was doing this for him, even though he had told the officers to come to my house to pick up Dale, my brother.
I was then shown my way to Officer Melvin who gave me the lighter and the knife. We stood next to each other, waiting for Josh, the friend, to arrive.
"And to think, I was playing cell phone games before you guys picked me up," I said out of boredom.
Here's why I named him Officer Melvin, his reply was this, "Oh, yeah? What sort of games do you like? Civilization?" That, my friends, is a computer game.
"I meant cell phone games. I was playing Snake."
"Oh." I think I shattered his world.
At any rate, Josh finally arrived and I drove the car off to his house and he gave me a ride home. End of that part of the story.
A couple of days later, Shannon and I were in the mall with a few friends and someone asked after Pucket. And Shannon sort of looked at me and then looked at the person and decided the score would be settled on a napkin. She decided to write out his fate.
After writing it down, she handed it to whoever it was who asked and he read it and said, "The Pope's Goth? What?"
Shannon quickly snatched the napking back, exclaiming, "What?! No! That's not what it says! It says, 'The popos got him!"
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why the_popes_goth.