Rats on the Road


Back in the 70's, I was a police officer in a small township. Like all communities, we had "one of those." Rats, we called him. I knew his real name back then and I've forgotten it, but everybody called him Rats.

Rats was the town drunk. I use that term with great respect because, unlike some that engage in too much elbow bending, Rats never gave the local cops any problems. He'd go out a couple nights a week and get himself wasted and either walk home or spend the night in his car - which, if you believed his story, was better than going home to the wife anyhow. If we'd get a call from the bartender, we'd just load him in the cruiser and run him home. Next night, he'd hunt us down to say thanks. And Rats was one of those guys that, drunk or sober, you knew would help you out if you ever needed it. Probably would have caught a bullet for you if he got the chance.

One night, on a midnight shift, I'm doing a routine patrol around a rural area. Foggier than hell out that night and dark too, can barely see the double yellows in the road. I round a bend and there's a car in the travel lane, four-way flashers on, and it ain't moving.

I fire up the red and blues, and get out. Nobody around. Creepy feeling when you first come on something like this. Just don't know what to expect. Car is locked up, engine's shut down and if there's somebody around, they don't want a cop to know it.

Then ... a flash of recognition. I know this car. Can't remember who owns it or why it's familiar, but I know this car. Good or bad? Don't know. Adrenelin's kicks into overdrive. I can't see 20 yards out and here's a car I've dealt with before and it might have been unfriendly.

Call it in for a 10-28. It's registered to Rats. OK breath easy now, but where's Rats? Call out for him - silence. Again, this time with the PA system. Silence. Damn! Do I have a body in the weeds or what?

OK, so I'll check the house and see if he's there. If not, I have work to do.

I put a couple flares behind Rat's car, just in case there's some other fool out here tonight and I head for Rat's house.

About a half mile down the road, the heart goes to the throat. Something in the road that shouldn't be there and it's about the right size for a crumpled body. The adrenelin is still pumping. The spotlight goes on. It's Rats. Crawling along the double yellow lines. He sees the car and stops.

"Hi Rats," says I. "Whatcha doing out here on a night like this?" Cops always ask dumb questions, especially coming off an adrenelin high.

"Going home," I'm informed almost as matter-of-fact as the stupid question that prompted the response.

"So why is your car back there on the road?" I ask, starting to see some humor in this situation.

"I decided I was too drunk to drive" Rats tells me with the sheepish look of one who just got caught with his paws in the honey pot.

"Good thinking," I tell him, trying to maintain just a wee bit of dignity. "But why are you crawling."

"Discovered I was too drunk to walk and the yellow lines seemed like a safe place to be. Could I trouble you for a ride home?"

Rats gave me his keys and I moved the car off the road. He got his ride home in the cruiser. The house was dark. I hope the wife was sleeping. He didn't deserve grief this time.

Just another night.

Thunder Drum