“On the Virtues of Being a Smartass”
Last Wednesday, when Mrs. Bartlett stood before us orating and gesturing so dramatically, I couldn’t resist capturing her speech on film. And what thanks did I get for it?
She called me a smartass!
Well, that got me to thinking. Just about anyone who’s ever met me has called me a “smartass” at one point or another—my parents, my friends, my bosses, my girlfriends, and now, even my professors. And I guess it’s fitting, after all. If you get to know me at all, you quickly figure out I don’t take much seriously, I tease everyone, and I love to play practical jokes. Sometimes I’m afraid my smartassery will get me into trouble, but more often than not, trouble manages to slide off my back like Myrick Park marsh water off the glistening back of a mallard.
Today I want to tell you about one of those times when trouble should have caught me, but somehow, it just slipped on past.
I’ll never forget this day, because it was my last day in the army. I was driving onto Fort Bragg with my best friend John to pick up my walking papers. Now at 2:30 in the morning, in a job where everyone has to be at work by 6:00 a.m., you can imagine things were pretty dead.
Pulling onto an empty four-laner, doing my usual five-over, I pulled up behind a lone military police squad car. Knowing he probably didn’t have a radar gun in the car, I decided to have some fun and passed him. He took the bait and sped up, tailing me for miles, all the way across base.
It wasn’t long before I realized he was probably way off his beat, but I couldn’t blame him. The guy was bored—and I was the only one around.
As I pulled into the little street where my unit headquarters was situated, he stayed right behind me. When I pulled into the parking lot, he slowed down almost to a stop. That was when I realized for sure something was up.
When I walked out of the headquarters a few moments later, the squad car was parked next to mine. With an internal groan, I decided to beard the lion in his den.
I strode up to the cop car, projecting a confidence I didn’t entirely feel. “Can I help you, Officer?” I called out into the deadly quiet night.
“What’s going on, soldier?” he responded. In the dim light, I couldn’t tell if it was the driver or his partner.
“Just picking up my terminal leave papers, officer,” I responded.
“Picking up your terminal leave papers, huh?” he echoed, sounding skeptical. “Have you been drinking, soldier?” I detected the faintest hint of amused sarcasm to his voice. If I had had any doubt before that these were just a couple of bored kids looking for a little fun, it was gone now.
The words sprang into my mind from some infernal pit bent on getting me sprung into jail. A rush of terror washed across me and I hesitated just a second—did I really want to go down this road on my last night in the army?
Of course I did. Who could resist the chance?
“No, I haven’t, officer,” I said loud enough for the entire base to hear. “But you can blow me if you want to.”
There was a stunned silence. I could practically hear my best friend sinking deep into the front seat.
“Uh, no . . . that’s okay,” the officer replied.
I turned on my heel and walked back to my car.
As the squad car eased out of the parking lot, the officers’ raucous laughter filtered out of their windows.
I slipped behind my steering wheel and grinned at John.
“Oh, my God,” he said. “That was amazing.”
I guess everyone loves a smartass.
"Rourke Decker" wrote: