Mood For the Day
Today's Mood on Mon, 18 May 1998
Mark struggled his bicycle up the last major hill on his way. The day was mild, but Mark was sweating not just with the hour's exertion, but with all the toxins of the party the night before.
It was a good party, yesterday. His sister had driven up from where she lived, an hour away, to see him perform -- he had had two minor performances that day -- and to cause general trouble wherever they found it. They had found quite a bit.
It was that trouble for which Mark was paying this afternoon as he laboriously coaxed the bicycle chain to continue its cycle around the cogs and cranks. --Not quite fifteen miles and I'm working this hard, he thought. --Christ, I must be gettin' old.
--Naw, you're just not getting any smarter, he heard his roommate say in his mind, and that brought a smile to his exertion-strained face just as a policeman drove by the other way. The policeman turned around.
Mark owned a mirror. He knew he cut a fairly offensive figure, and with a smile outlined by sweat, he could certainly understand where the policeman had cause for alarm. The conversation he was about to have still managed to surprise him somewhat.
The cop pulled over and Mark came to a stop beside him, thinking that if he were the cop he might be a little more careful. 'Help you with somethin'?' he asked.
The first words the cop stammered as he emerged from the car were 'Young ... you're young ... I mean you're old, but you're young ...' Mark liked the start of this conversation already. The cop started over, and pointed to Mark's head. Mark just stared at him with the detached disinterest of one who is trying like mad to bring one's pulse down to a sane level immediately after strenuous excercise.
'I pulled you over because of your...' started the cop, and trailed off. Mark thought he knew what was going on, and supplied the word, 'Helmet?' There's a helmet law in effect in the state of California which applies to bicyclists, but only if they're under 16 or so. Although Mark looked young, he didn't look that young.
'No, your description,' the cop said, evidently becoming more accustomed to the idea of delivering complete sentences. 'Your description matches someone we've been looking for, but you're clearly not him. You're too young. Can I see your ID, though, just to be sure?'
'Certainly,' Mark replied, and retrieved his ID from his bike pouch. He kept it there to buy wine, usually. This was definately the first time the authorities had asked for it. 'Have you ever been arrested before?' the cop asked him. 'Ever been in trouble?'
'Well, I've been pulled over before,' answered Mark. 'But other than for driving offenses, no, I've managed to stay out of jail. Is this man dangerous?' he asked. The cop returned his question with a blank stare as he called in Mark's license. 'The man who I look like,' Mark prompted. 'Is he dangerous?' The cop seemed to snap back into recognition. Mark began to question the cop's chemical composition.
'Oh, er, yeah, I'd say he was dangerous. You know, rapist, murderer, the whole bit.' Mark wondered what the whole bit was, but wisely managed to keep these questions to himself. (Last time Mark checked, Mr. Gone was bald, not mohawked.) The cop finished with his license and handed it back, whereupon Mark replaced it. He motioned forward with a questioning look, and the cop seemed to finally understand.
'You're free to go,' the cop said. Mark mounted his bike again, and stopped to turn back once more. 'By any chance if I should meet him, what's his name? Or perhaps an alias or something? Anything by which I might recognize him?' Mark inquired.
The cop seemed to search his memory, and shook his head slowly. 'Nope' he answered, shaking his head more quickly now. 'Nothing.' Mark goggled in disbelief, and then rode away as fast as his cooling muscles would allow, ducking civilization and taking side streets for the rest of the journey. He had thought of taking the policeman's badge number, but it was kind of swimmy and blurry and he really didn't want it nearly as badly as he wanted to get away.
Mark remembered reading that the dinosaurs who were vegetarians were vegetarian but stupid: if an animal were standing stock still, a brontosaurus (for example) might eat half of it before the bronto realized that the animal wasn't a plant after all.
The cop didn't know the name, location, or accused crime of the man for whom he was looking, but he knew Mark wasn't it.
Mark was scared.
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