Jimbo's Big Money-making Scheme

“We won!” Jimbo exclaimed. 

I was not surprised at Jimbo’s show of jubilation. He was always more emotional than I. But as part owner of the enterprise, Jimbo and Tony Racing Team, I was happy that we had won our first race.  We were in our fifth year at Bradley elementary school and life was good.  It was good to have my blood brother with me at school now. His family had moved during the summer and now Jimbo and I could attend the same school.  It had been a number of years since we had stood under that big oak tree and cut our palms with our pocket knives and shook hands mixing our blood. He had a Roy Rogers knife and I had a Hopalong Cassidy knife.  I wasn’t exactly a Hoppy fan but Santa Clause somehow got confused. It was said that the great Cherokee chief, Attakulakula, had held war council under that tree. 

Neither Jimbo nor I came from very well-to-do families.  We didn’t receive allowances like the rich kids did.  We were always trying to find ways to get some money.  There was bubble gum to buy and fireworks and other necessities for growing boys that required money. Jimbo was always very clever at coming up with ways to get some money other than out right stealing. His latest scheme was a pretty good one although it did involve gambling.  As a Baptist, I was against gambling, or at least my momma said I was. Now Jimbo was a Methodist and he said they looked at things a bit differently. In other words, if we put a percentage of our winnings in the collection plate on Sunday, everything would be alright. But in the back of my mind I knew that if Momma found out I was betting on the races she would skin me alive. And that was no happy thought! So Jimbo came up with the idea of a critter race. Most folks reading this probably have never heard of a critter race much less seen one. 

The critter race idea was a spark of genius. A six foot in diameter circle was drawn on the dirt.  The critters were released in the center of the circle and the first one to get outside the circle was the winner. The only rule was that the critter had to be small enough to be hidden in your hand.

We won the first race easily.  Jimbo had found us one of the fastest critters around. It may sound weird but one of our critter’s biggest advantages was that it was afraid of the light. Jimbo was the trainer, vet and everything else pertaining to the critter. I was the financial manager.  I took care of the money. I covered our bets. The lowest bet allowed was a penny and you could go as high as you wanted. Billy Pickelsteimer would bet a quarter. His daddy owned the local gin and cottonseed oil mill. We liked Billy! 

On the second day we had a bit of controversy.  We could have said that Jimmy Robinson was trying to cheat but in order to cheat you have to break a rule. The only rule about contestants was that they had to fit in the palm of your hand. Jimmy’s critter was a spider with eight legs. We all complained and Craig Steifle wanted to fight about it but things were solved without violence. Jimmy plucked two legs off the spider and everyone quit complaining. People tried all kinds of critters though. Davey Wardlaw brought some kind of flying bug but it wouldn’t fly when he released it.  We were proud of our critter and kept him in a Three Torches matchbox. 

On the third day the other boys were getting a bit upset because we were winning all the races. So we made thiem a deal they could not resist.  We said that we would bet all our winnings on Friday’s race. Our winnings tallied up to $3.53. We were already planning on how to spend it. I was thinking that the races might get so popular that maybe we should think about charging admission. 

For whatever reason, I don’t remember, Jimbo had asked me to keep Pedro, that was the name of our critter, at our house. Friday morning at breakfast.  Mamma said to me, “Son, I was in your room putting away some clean underwear for you when I saw a pile of change on your dresser. There was over three dollars there. Where’d you get all that money?”

“Eh..” I began, “...at school Susie Wilkerson’s puppy got run over by a car so we’re collecting money to help her buy a new one.” I had lied. I  hoped Momma would never find out or I would have a rough row to hoe.

“Well, that’s a nice thing to do,” she said, then added, ” While I was in your underwear drawer, I found a match box. You know you’re not supposed to have matches! I opened  the box and would you believe a nasty, dirty, filthy cockroach jumped out. I stomped him flat, twisting my foot so there’s nothing but a greasy spot on the floor now. Now you’ve got to tell me what that cockroach was doing in your underwear drawer?”

I was speechless. I put my hand over my mouth, blew out my cheeks looking like I was about to throw up, knocked my chair over getting up from the table and ran out of the room. 

I was able to avoid Momma and get on the school bus. At school I told Jimbo the story. We forfeited our race and gave everybody their money back. When I got home I told Momma about the critter races but conveniently left out the part about betting on the races.

However, Pedro, whom we billed as the fastest cockroach in Mexico will live in infamy!  At least for us. And I never got skinned alive!

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This is a work of fiction.

Night Ride With Sarge

“You can call me John, Frank, or Sarge,” he said.

I was trying to keep up with the tall man in blue as we walked across the parking lot toward the police cars. It was the last part of the Citizen Police Academy offered by our local police department. This was the “ride along”; the event we class members were waiting for.  And I was no different.  All  other lectures with exception of D.U.I. stops and using speed detection equipment had been at the station. 

“Okay, Sarge,” I said.

“We’ll be using this old Crown Vic since my car is in the shop,” he said as we approached the patrol car. “And remember, you will stay in the car at all times.  I don’t care if I’m getting my ass beat, you stay in the car!”

“Got it,” I said,  I did not feel argumentative. 

Once I entered the car, I realized the lack of space in the front. With the space needed for the laptop and other electronics the passenger seating was rather limited. 

“This car doesn’t have a laptop, so I’ll be doing things the old fashioned way,” he said as he lay several printed pages on the platform designed to hold the laptop.

He fired up the Crown Vic and we were on our way. I listened as he explained how the papers on the platform contained a list of what he had to do during his shift. “There’s something I always do at the beginning of each shift before I begin work on the list. We’re going to Bucky’s Quick Stop,” he said.

“We taking a break to get started?” I said with a smile.

“Yes and no,” Sarge retorted without any humor in his voice. 

H“Bucky’s is my local source of information about the community.  I can find out if anything suspicious is going on around there.”

“Pretty smart,” I said.  

There was no response. I had hoped I would see some kind of action. Cops, Adam 12, NYPD Blue, Hill Street Blues and more recently Blue Bloods were my favorite TV shows. 

We drove around while Sarge worked his list. He checked one place for a vagrant and a house where criminal activity was suspected.  And finally we were heading out of town on a busy fourlane street when Sarge said, “Hold on!”

He turned on the blue lights and he executed a u-turn. The tires squealed. I heard the engine gasping for air as the acceleration threw me back in my seat. I always get an adrenaline rush when I’m in a vehicle accelerating. Our quarry was a small red pick-up truck. 

"What’d he do?” I wanted to know.

“He didn’t dim his lights,” Sarge said.

The truck pulled over into the center and stopped. Sarge alighted and approached the vehicle but soon returned to the car. He was holding a driver’s license in his hand. “Do you know how to pronounce this name?” he asked, showing the license to me.

“Can’t help you, Sarge,”  I answered.  I have never been good at pronouncing  Middle Eastern names,

Sarge continued to stare at the driver’s license, then,  with a sigh he went back to the motorist.  Upon his reentering the police car, I asked him if he had given the driver a ticket. He said he had not, but had given him a stern lecture about driving on a restricted driver’s license.  The young man driving the pick-up was violating the restrictions of his license.

The night staggered on. No excitement.

The radio crackled.  Sarge said it was a rookie cop who needed a veteran’s help. A few minutes later we were at another convenience store. There was a young officer, an elderly lady, and a small Indian man in front of the store.

I stayed in the car as Sarge approached the trio.  Within a few minutes the young cop had put the old lady in his police car and the Indian man had disappeared back into the store. As they were leaving the young cop stopped his car beside our car. 

Sarge said to the young officer, “Remember, when you get her home go next door and tell her daughter what happened. She’ll take care of her.”

“What was that all about, Sarge?”  I wanted to know, thinking, did they arrest little old ladies?

As we turned back on the major street, Sarge said, ” Hijab, the store owner, called the police. He couldn’t get the lady to leave.  Even though she had driven there, she said the car wasn’t hers. He offered to call someone for her but she said she didn’t know anybody. So he called us. This happens every now and then with old people.  They shouldn’t be allowed on the road.”

I was not fond of Sarge’s last statement. I’m seventy-six. 

We had a few more traffic stops that night. Not much excitement, and that was good. In retrospect, I would go through the Citizen Police Academy again.

And I'll get my police excitement from television.

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The names have been changed in thi story for obvious reasons.