When I was sitting in Ed. Psych. listening to Professor Fields drone on about the signs I needed to look for so I would be prepared to face a situation in which a student tried to get the upper hand, I never expected to need that knowledge.
When I supported the sheriff through several re-election campaigns, I never expected to have him pay attention to me as a citizen.
When I called a student’s mom to tell her that her very intoxicated son was at my house and she could pick him up at my house as soon as possible, I never expected to be paid back.
And now I can FINALLY use Paul Harvey’s tagline: “And, here’s the rest of the story…” and couple it with Sergeant Joe Friday’s closing assurance: “with the names changed to protect the innocent.”
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The door to my classroom opened and Detective Sergeant Robby Willison walked into my classroom, handcuffed and “arrested” me for disturbing the peace. Though my students were shaken, I was not worried. Robby and I have a 20 year history of unusual moments.
When he was 16 and in my English II class, he showed up in my room after school to ask me to proofread a love letter to his girlfriend who was an Honors student and before whom he did not want to appear “dumb and young.” (She was a graduating senior bound for the University of Alabama Scholars Program.) She must have been pleased with his letter because they dated until she left for college in August of the following year.
The next year, he was not in any of my classes but dropped by for help with English and American History projects. I learned much about football as we dug through books (this was pre-Internet) to compile research on the development of modern football pads and protective gear. I am not sure who was more embarrassed the afternoon we discussed whether or not to include “the cup” in his research paper. His decision to exclude it was based on my reaction: “I gotta leave it out, Ms. M. If you’re bothered by it, Mrs. Hawks will just go ballistic and my grade’ll be shot.” That was in November, for the remainder of the year, every so often I would walk into my room and find a cup of Tab (Diet Coke had yet to be invented) sitting my desk with a Smiley Face sticker attached.
January of his senior year, Robby showed up at my house about 1:00 in the morning reeling drunk and scared because he had driven off the road into a ditch and was afraid to drive the remaining 16 miles to his home. I called his mother as he collapsed on my living room floor, told her the situation and asked if she wanted me to try to bundle him in my car and bring him home. Her grim grin came through her voice, “Ms. Mayer, he’s got 50 pounds and 12 inches on you. Defensive linemen can’t move him, do you really think you can? No, you leave him be, his Pop will be there soon. Just let me get him up so’s you can give him directions.”
A year and a half later, Robby showed up in my classroom one afternoon to ask that I not be completely disappointed in him because he had quit college and joined the Marine Corps. For the next decade or so, I’d receive occasional letters or phone calls letting me know how he was doing including finding his true love while on duty in Germany and marrying her.
What with family and obligations, I didn’t see Robby for 3 years after he retired from the Corps and came back to the area to live. But our reunion was a memorable one.
I was driving down a main thoroughfare in Orange Park which is a 4 lane divided highway with a posted speed limit of 35. I am meticulous about keeping my speed down on that stretch of road because the cops are always hiding behind shrubs and business sheds to catch the unwary. It was a beautiful afternoon, my window was down and I was accompanying the Beach Boys as we sang about the joys of riding waves, then I saw the cursed blue light strobing in my rearview mirror. I looked at my speedometer in horror; it only read 33. What was the problem? I slowed down and hoped the cruiser would pass me by. No such luck. The Beach Boys were drowned out by the shrieking of a siren. I grimaced, sighed and pulled over to the curb. I’d watched enough police shows on television to know that I was not supposed to leave the car, so I dug in my purse for my wallet as I watched the deputy sheriff’s car pull up right behind my Pinto.
The door swung open and the officer began to climb out of the cruiser. He pushed his official Stetson back on his head as he closed his door and began walking toward my car, grinning. I erupted from my vehicle and began stomping toward him, shrieking and shaking my finger at him; “Robby Willison, you IDIOT! You gave me a heart attack. I can’t believe you think this is funny! How could you do this to me?” I continued to scream in affronted rage and embarrassment as I poked in him the chest, doing no damage at all due bullet-proof vest his wore. Guffaws so severe they caused him to double over in laughter were my only response.
Eventually we both calmed down and he “let me off with a warning” that I’d be safe driving because this was his last day on patrol as he was about to become an undercover detective. (I found out later that when he returned to the station, his fellow deputies ribbed him about his inability to restrain me. Several of them had seen the incident as he had called in that he was going to stop me and, at the time, six deputies and one dispatcher were my former students.)
About 7:00 that evening the Sheriff called me wanting to know why I had accosted one of his officers in the course of his duty. Didn’t I know that accosting a deputy was a punishable offense? Not to mention that it did the Sheriff’s Office no public relations good for me to be seen remonstrating a deputy on the side of road so severely that he had to bend over and clutch his stomach! People had called his office describing the incident and wondering what he was going to do about it. For the briefest minute, I thought he was serious and I had no idea, not one, about how to explain what happened without getting Robby in trouble. I was gasping for words, when his warm chuckle came over the line, “Gotcha, didn’t we?”
Those memories flashed through my mind as Detective Sergeant Willison marched me out the door, leaving my Assistant Principal to explain to my class that I was being “jailed” for the Sheriff’s Office annual fund-raising “Jail and Bail” activity. Nothing was really wrong and I would be back at work tomorrow.
Sometimes what initially appears to be a recipe for disaster is in actuality a demonstration of enduring faith in a valued friend’s distorted sense of humor.
And sometimes, horrible situations like living during a pandemic make you realize retaining the ability to laugh is a blessing.
