Chattanooga Pulse

I unconsciously shifted my boots to dislodge them from the adhesive effects of the partially dried urine on the floor, staring transfixed at a bit of graffiti on the condom machine gracing the wall above the commode I was making use of.  So deep in thought was I that my head tilted to the left in mid-chew, letting the hot dog I was working on with my free hand drift downwards a bit just before I burst into muffled laughter, flecks of partially chewed bread and beef (and lips and rectum, I imagine) joining the sticky mess that was the floor on which I stood.

“GUM’S GONE BAD—WON’T CHEW”, it read in thick permanent ink.  (Pause for a moment.  It takes a second before you can fully visualize some Nimrod chewing on a prophylactic thinking it’s a piece of candy before settling on this proclamation.)  I liked it, and tried to imagine the source of the advice without taking too long to file it away as something most likely alcohol related.

Ah, such a source of entertainment, that magical phrase:  “Alcohol Related.”  I killed the remaining hot dog and secured my gear (in that order) and washed up in the sink of this tiny convenience-store restroom, thinking of the myriad events alcohol had shaped in my criminally investigative travels.  I left the bathroom and passed overpriced racks of Brillo Pads and snackey-cakes when the sight of Plexiglas encased “Yellow Jackets” stimulants display produced an even larger grin on my face than the one I had upon exiting the filthy crapper, and I came to a slow halt to better focus as I reminisced.

The source of the memory was a local disc jockey and an attorney.  Both professions were as rife with the debaucherous and unabashed chemical abuse and penchant for buggery as any self-respecting fireman or U.S. congressman, but these two made even the aforementioned comparable professions appear as Mormon Church pamphlets on the floor of a Phish concert in Vermont.

My mind drifted to a beautiful Chattanooga Sunday afternoon around 11 a.m., which naturally meant both the DJ and the attorney were as drunk as a pair of football bats.  The topic of a yellow jacket nest being aroused during the prior week’s mowing began to infuriate them, and being incredibly clever, they devised a plan that would bypass such pedestrian weapons as “bug and hornet spray” and other chemicals in favor of advanced conventional weapons.  And it is with this that I proudly introduce the appearance of the Shop-Vac 962 Wet/Dry Vacuum and its 6.25 horsepower motor, which produces a 200 MPH inductive wind that the smallest non-American cars couldn’t hope to escape the wrath of the Almighty from.  They also had vodka with their iced tea.

The intrepid pair approached the offending nest with the use of an extension cord, and with great deliberation they jammed the free-end of the hose they were holding into the earthen entrance of the underground nest, and flipped the machine “on”.  Minutes passed as the great device worked its magic and the two toasted one another, literally, as not so much as a single bug invaded their space during the industrial vacuum’s tornadic reign.  Five full minutes passed before they disengaged the switch and quickly stuffed the tip of the machines vacuum tube with soft but stable newspaper to prevent their quarries’ escape, and their self glorification flowed as easily as the condensation down the sides of their iced glasses.  As time passed, however, so did their confidence in their feat, as they began to doubt their success based on a continuing lack of yellow jackets or any noise from the Shop-Vac.  And such was the embryo of their tragic (and alcohol-based) miscalculation.

It was the DJ that first screwed up the courage to lean down beside the body of the machine and gently tap against the side of the canister to elicit a response from the would-be inhabitants within.  Producing no discernable results, the tapping progressed to a flat-handed slapping, and still nothing was heard by either man.  Now furious at thinking their entire endeavor a fraud, they elected to produce definitive proof of their engineering marvel by removing the lid of the Shop-Vac canister, despite all risk and appearance of common sense. With surprising reservation, it was the attorney who popped the safety releases from the sides of the vacuum canister and lifted the motor-section from the main body of the device…thus freeing what quickly became an opaque cloud of yellow and black fury the likes of which I was grateful to see from behind the protective screen of a porch.  A protective screen our dynamic duo did not have to their advantage.

A cloud of yellow jackets of near Biblical proportions arose in direct proportion to the agony that began immediately and progressed through the remainder of the story.  The DJ ran screaming as he literally broke through a neighbor’s wooden fence with comic effect in order to jump into a swimming pool for relief, while the attorney sought refuge inside his Audi just outside in the driveway.  It is of note that while his choice was less effective (as it enabled several scores of his venom-filled agitators to accompany him), in hindsight I respected it more because it allowed him to continue holding his beverage…true homage to the loyalty to Alcohol only the dedicated and otherwise addicted possess.

The day, as most tragedies do, eventually wound down…but not without a fond (if not searing) memory of these events, and my smile remained as I exited the store and slowly got into my patrol car.  As I ducked inside it, fleeing my own imaginary swarm of insects, I cringed at the very real pain of catching my knee against the frame just so, but it too caused a smile.

For that pain, too…was “Alcohol Related”.

When officer Alexander D. Teach is not patrolling our fair city on the heels of the criminal element, he is an occasional student at UTC, an up and coming carpenter, auto mechanic, prominent boating enthusiast, and spends his spare time volunteering for the Boehm Birth Defects Center.