Where’s Tat Cop When I Need Him?

By Noel Shumann

HOW OFTEN CAN YOU LEAD 100 CARS TO MCDONALD’S FOR BREAKFAST AND THEY DON’T EVEN KNOW IT?

The simple explanation…they thought they were going to a cemetery to bury my best friend, Mac. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell them because he had already passed through the veil. Mac was a well-known person in West Palm Beach with many families attending his funeral. They were somberly forming a funeral line and here I was leading them astray. Not only was I leading them astray, but I had a very angry motorcycle cop looking for me.

When I found out Mac had died, my wife Terry and I had fown down to West Palm Beach from Atlanta, rented a car, and headed to the church where the funeral was being held. As we pulled into the entrance, it became obvious the place was packed. There was a motorcycle cop directing traffc into the parking lot. He stopped us before pulling in but quickly got distracted by the other traffc. I decided to just go ahead on into the parking lot to get directions to the wake but instantly realized this was not a good move. Once the policeman realized I had squeezed in, he came over to the car and frmly chastised me for not obeying him at the entrance. I explained that we were just trying to fnd the directions to where the family was holding the wake, as we were going to bypass the burial and that I thought it would be OK to go around his instructions. He quickly motioned to the funeral line and said that we were going to follow directions just like everyone else. He designated a spot for our car right near him, 8 th in line. There was no way we were getting out of his sight.

I somehow managed to get the directions to the Irish wake, so I was determined to skip out on the burial. I didn’t want to see my best friend buried. I dropped behind the line of cars a little so they wouldn’t notice my planned detour. I was hoping for a serendipitous exit when the traffc thinned down which was out of sight of the police offcer and other people in the funeral line. I was hungry for an Egg McMuffn and knew we had some time to kill. I made a mad dash for McDonald’s. My wife, who happens to have the honorable title of the world’s worst back seat driver, soon realized my offensive driving had not separated us from the funeral line. As I was about to turn into the McDonald’s parking lot, my wife suggested I take a look in my rearview mirror. Unbeknownst to me, I had about a hundred cars from the funeral procession following me. I could tell she was enjoying my problem and strongly suggested I change my plans and get directions to the cemetery before I lead everyone astray. She followed up with a slight grin to her face, “or maybe they are going to join us for breakfast”. Not only did I have over 100 cars following me, but I also didn’t have the faintest idea where the cemetery was! Life’s darkest moment had arrived, where was that cop when I needed him? Sure enough, on the very next block, my friend the cop showed up on his motorcycle. The words he used on me could never be put in this publication, and steam seemed to be coming out of every orifce of his body. To make it worse, the cars were blinking their lights and communicating with their horns to tell me I was going in the wrong direction. At this point, the police offcer hated me, and my wife wasn’t too fond of me either. The two of them were a match made in heaven…and it was beginning to look like hell for me. She had to take the reins and quickly. Sensing that I was on shaky ground, she leaned out my open window and informed the cop that she was going to take over the driving and that all our problems would cease to exist. The cop, recognizing their mutual anger towards me, agreed, and a bond was instantly made. Humility was the best course of action, so I hopped out of the driver’s seat and let my wife take over the wheel. I guess there was a little conversation on the police radio because we now had three cops escorting us. If I didn’t know the ugly truth, I would have thought I was a celebrity. Off we went…Peace settled in the valley. We now had a police escort and made it to the cemetery. I could no longer avoid the inevitable fnal goodbye to Mac. After suffering through what seemed like an eternity, we made our way to our originally planned destination. By the time we got to the wake, we needed no introduction; everyone already knew what had happened. I heard the buzz from family and friends speaking of our travels to some faraway lands (Bahamas, England, Paris, and New York) only to have trouble follow us everywhere we went. My police escorts attended the wake, and after a few drinks, we all made up and became friends. They too found humor in my “Mac” stories and listened with amazement as I told them the story of Mac throwing the visiting ambassador’s fag off the Eiffel tower while President DeGaulle was there eating dinner with another country’s ambassador. This insanity by Mac paved our way to the Paris police station. That was a wasted day of our trip. Mac was repentant as I guess he thought that fag would fy away under the radar. Mac would be proud of our visit down memory lane and of course I assured my police friends that they would get a copy of the book that I’m in the process of writing of the amazing adventures of Mac and Noel. I can’t forget Max’s funeral because my wife fnds every opportunity to share my close-call with all who will listen.

Noel Shumann is a REALTOR, an author, a speaker and quite the entertainer. He is an excellent writer and the best part is, his stories are true. Noel and his wife Terry lived in Rabun but currently reside in the Atlanta area.