STOPPED BY THE POLICE

STOPPED BY THE POLICE 

By Duncan 

It was time to head for the house. I was stopped in Tampa. 

As seems to be my fate, people will say, “You're going to stop by and have lunch, right, Mr. Duncan?” 

Tampa is no exception. This story goes all the way back to Indianapolis. There is a little Baptist church called Crooked Creek Baptist Church. The congregation is much smaller today, with a handful of believers who still come each Sunday. My parents called it their church home for 40 or more years. They loved this church. 

George Ronald William Duncan 

My father, George Ronald William Duncan, was a strong believer and a “Go-to-Church-Every-Sunday” kind of guy. One Sunday, a new couple came to church. My dad approached, asked their names, and welcomed them to the church. Over the years, he and the Lopez family became close friends. 

I was at church one Sunday with my dad, and we all went to lunch after church. They had a young son named Erik, who was very shy. So, at lunch, I sat next to Erik and engaged him in conversation. He was very shy and very respectful and called me “Mr. Duncan.” 

I was impressed with Erik, and I was just as impressed with his parents. They were raising a polite young man. 

Duncan, Erik Lopez 

Erik knew I was riding a motorcycle and asked if he could take a ride. His mother, Guemalli (his mother), was not excited about Erik being on the back of a motorcycle. However, one afternoon, Merlin brought Erik over to the house and, more or less, gave his blessing. Erik and I were off to places unknown. 

Erik Lopez, Merlin Lopez. 

I think Merlin was so relieved after our bike ride that his son was safe that he couldn’t help but give him a hug. That afternoon, I became an extended member of their family. 

I was invited to Erik’s wrestling matches and football games. Erik was becoming a focused young man. 

Erik Lopez - Pike High School. 

#11 - Erik Lopez

Merlin, Erik, Guemalli Lopez

#11 - Erik Lopez, Duncan

We all had lunch one Sunday after church, and Erik was sixteen. So I decided to give him a little trouble in front of everybody.  

“So, now that you are sixteen and can drive, how many girlfriends do you have? How many dates will you be on, Erik?”

“I don’t have any girlfriends, Mr. Duncan. I don’t have a driver's license.”   

I looked across the dining table at Guemalli and said, “He doesn’t have a driver’s license; why not?”  

“He doesn’t need one!”

I always knew Guemalli was a strict mother, and she expected Erik to toe the line. But I have to admit I was surprised, shocked, and flabbergasted. 

”Every sixteen-year-old kid looks forward to a driver's license.” 

I looked at Merlin; he just dropped his head slightly. Well, we know what that means, don’t we? The decision maker is Guemalli. I began my flamboyant rant, 

“Guemalli, you have got to be kidding me. You’re not going to allow your ONLY sixteen-year-old son to have what every sixteen-year-old son in America longs for, wants, and needs … a driver's license? What about dates with girls? Are you going to be driving him on his dates? Will you allow the date to sit in the back seat? Oh, I can see that happening. I don’t think so; what’s the problem here?” Guemalli, talk to me. 

“If you think he needs a driver's license, you can teach him to drive; I’m not doing it!” 

I turned to Erik and gave him a “Stage Whisper” so everyone at the table could hear what I was about to say. 

“Erik, you and I will meet tomorrow at that church parking lot close to your home, and I will begin teaching you how to drive a car. You’ll learn on a manual transmission automobile. I’m bringing the Mean Yellow.

“Mr. Duncan, I don’t know how to shift a car.” 

“You will when we get finished tomorrow.” 

I have never heard my Mean Yellow Pontiac Solstice gearbox make so many ugly grinding sounds. And Erik must have restarted my supercharged engine a hundred times. But at the end of the day, as Larry, the cable guy would say, “Get-R-Done.” Erik was asking if he could borrow the car for prom. Now that progress. 

Time flies when you are having fun. Erik graduated from high school and wanted to attend the University of Tampa. I left Indiana in 2014 and decided to Live in North Fort Myers. I took Dad with me, and he enjoyed his last four years in Florida. 

Merlin Lopez, George R. Duncan (98), Guemalli Lopez (December 2017) North Fort Myers. Visiting from Indianapolis. 

Merlin Lopez, Erik Lopez, Guemalli Lopez - Graduation Day, University of Tampa. Tampa, Florida. 

“What do you want to do with your life now, Erik?” 

“I want to be a policeman. I want to go to the Tampa Police Academy.” 

Merlin Lopez, Officer Erik Lopez, Guemalli Lopez. Graduation Day, Tampa Police Academy.

Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopez, Duncan. 

So, Erik is aware I’m in Florida. He said, “You will stop by Tampa and have dinner with me.” I’m not going to disobey a Police Officer. It’s set. I will leave Sebring in the late afternoon, head north for about two hours, and have dinner with Erik. However, Erik works tonight and says he has an hour for supper. So let’s meet in Historic Ybor City. I arrive in Ybor City and find the public parking lot one block off the main drag. 

I parked the Mean Yellow in the public parking lot. Erik says he will meet me here. I wait. 

Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopex reporting as requested. 

A woman who did not make much sense.

As Erik and I stood in the parking lot talking, a woman approached Erik and wanted information about a disturbance. She wanted some kind of help. 

Erik stood his ground, and I moved back a few feet, for I didn’t know what would happen. She began a rant, which I couldn’t understand. I watched Erik. He stood and listened to the woman with a bland, straight face; he asked a few polite questions. The woman looked at me and said, “Good Luck getting any help from him. Are you in trouble?” 

I didn’t answer but bowed my head. I guess she took that as a sign she needed to move on. And she did. 

“Does that happen to you often?”  

“Often enough.”

JAMES JOYCE IRISH PUB

JAMES JOYCE IRISH PUB

A James Joyce Irish Pub was across the street from the parking lot behind us. We decided to have dinner there. I wasn’t sure if Erik was comfortable going to the restaurant in full police mode. I noticed he sat with his back to the wall and was scanning the place the whole time we were there. 

Duncan, Tampa Police Officer Erik Lopez. 

I had to ask if he was doing what he wanted to do. Has your path to a Police career been as you envisioned it? And he lamented. 

“Well, I love the weather in Tampa; I know Tampa. I love my job. Yes, there are times when things don’t go as I would like, but it’s what I do, a career, and I’m very happy here. It’s what I wanted to do, and I’m doing it.”

“Well, Erik, my dear friend, I’ve got to ask the sixty-four dollar question. Have you got a woman in your life?”

With my hours, different shifts, and being on-call, I don’t know any woman who would put up with my work schedule. I bought a big truck, and I love driving it around.”

Erik was always easygoing. In high school, he was strong on the wrestling mates and wanted to win on the football field. At one point, he thought about joining the Marines. 

When he announced, “I want to be a policeman,” his family and I were worried. I became intently scared for his safety. 

As we discussed his day and work, he seems to take everything in stride. He even hinted he wants to move up in the police department—hinted, mind you. 

I’m unsure if he has a clear goal for his next challenge, but I think he has something in the back of his mind. Whatever it is, I think at this point, at least, it will be in public service in and around Tampa. 

We walked out of the Pub and across the street. He looked at my Mean Yellow Pontiac Solstice and said, “You know, it all began in this car.”  I had to laugh. I looked at my hot rod. I turned and looked at his patrol car. I smiled, and he smiled back. 

“You have moved up in the world. Be safe, Erik, and keep in touch.” 

LONG JOHN SILVER

 LONG JOHN SILVER  

By Duncan 

I had an appointment for an ultrasound at the Veterans Administration today. I offer a picture (above) of what happens when a man gets an ultrasound. My pretty VA woman told me to remove my shirt and lower my jeans to half-mast. 

I am curious to know if I have a serious problem. You see, this woman, or should I say this Nurse Practitioner, is not allowed to tell me anything. So, I have no idea how someone noticed a small shadow on my kidney. This works in the medical field because the Doctors are all omniscient, which means “God is all-knowing.” No one, absolutely no one, is allowed to talk to the patient about anything except the Doctor. 

So, as I’m half-naked talking to this pretty woman (Sorry, Nurse Practitioner), I’m trying to figure out what interesting topics we can talk about as she slides this gooey camera over my body. So, I decided to break the ice with this comment. 

“So, do you come here often? Can I buy you a drink?”  

She has no expression or reaction in any way to my comment.

“So, has the shadow moved, or gotten bigger?” 

“What is it that you know?” 

“I only know there is a shadow, and the Doctor wants to know what it is. My problem is, I don’t know which Doctor has asked for all this photography. This place keeps changing people around. I see someone new each time. For example, have you ever had the pleasure of meeting me?  Don’t answer, the room is more than likely bugged.”

“And what else do you think you know?”  

“Well, I assume the Doctor is not sure if I have a problem, “Let’s take pictures every year and keep an eye on him. This is my third year.” 

“Or he could be one of those Don Knots Doctors that went to a legal seminar, and the legal know-it-all warned Doctors to protect themselves. So, my Doctor is afraid of a lawsuit and has decided to err on the side of many tests at my expense.

You know I get a payment request every time I come to this place?”  

“Wow, you really have it all figured out don’t you?” 

“Tell me I’m wrong.” 

She picked up the paperwork and refreshed herself about why I was there. Then she put the documents back and continued to take pictures. She was as cool as a cucumber. Her left hand was on the computer keyboard, and her right was on the camera, sliding across my stomach.

She was finally finished and gave me a towel to wipe the goose grease off my stomach. She told me I could get dressed and turned her back to me. I slipped my shirt over my head, turned my back to her, and adjusted my shirt so I could put the shirt back in my jeans. I turned, and she smiled. She pointed to my overcoat hanging on the wall. She walked with me till I was in a major hallway. She said it would take about 48 hours, and I would receive a phone call about the test results. 

I desperately wanted to say, ”Did I pass?” But, this was a no-smoking, no-joking kind of gal. Sorry, Nurse Practitioner.

As I pulled out of the VA complex, I decided to take a different route home. I wanted to drive by the cemetery where my parents were laid to rest, just to look over and acknowledge that they were there. It was pretty close to my normal beaten path home. I got to a major intersection and decided to take the road north to the interstate around Indianapolis. While northbound, I see a fast food restaurant, Long John Silver's.   

This fast food restaurant doesn’t enjoy the foot traffic that the other fast food places have, but they serve a very tasty fish meal. Before I go any further, I know it’s not the most healthy food in the world. Yes, I know it’s all fried food: the fish, the hush puppies, the French fries. Yes, I know. I stopped anyway. Let me tell you why I stopped.  

In 2002, my mother, Lucy, passed. It was a typical Baptist funeral. About one hundred people came to view the body, and several stayed for the service. I was surprised at Dad’s age of ninety-nine (99) that anyone who cared about Dad was still alive and around. Keep in mind this is my second experience with burying a parent, so I’m still new at this.

Anyway, a church lunch was scheduled in the basement of the Crooked Creek Baptist Church after the funeral. So, the pitch-in lunch took a couple of hours. Dad was emotionally and physically tired when he got home late Friday afternoon. 

George Ronald (Ronnie) William Duncan is better known as “George.”  

We sat down at the breakfast table just off the kitchen. He was looking out the back window. He had not said anything on the ride home, and he had still not said anything to me as we walked into the empty house. I sat across from him, not wanting to break his thoughts. 

It was getting dark, and I was not sure what to do. Leave him alone in the house, feed him dinner, talk with him, and sit quietly. At some point, I asked him if he was hungry and wanted to eat something. He quickly said they (Lucy and George) eat fish on Friday. So, I assumed Gordon’s Fish Sticks were in the freezer, and I also assumed that was what they had on Friday. I thought, (You’re not Catholic, why fish on Friday?) 

So, I asked him, “Is there anything else you would like?” He looked at me with burning eyes and a solemn attitude. “We always eat fish on Friday.” 

So I got up from the breakfast table and headed for the freezer. 

“What are you doing?  

“I’m going to get out the fish sticks and heat the oven.”  

“That’s Lucy’s oven and no one can use her oven except Lucy.” 

GEORGE & LUCY

So, I walked back to the round orange table and sat quietly for a few minutes. Then Dad whispered, Lucy got tired of asking daily, "What do you want for supper, Geroge?” Dad continued, They sat down and decided what they would have every day of the week. Every meal. Friday was fish. Every single Friday night, week after week, year after year. 

It was obvious I would be doing no cooking in that kitchen. So, I asked, 

“You want to go out to a restaurant and have a fish dinner?”   

He said he was tired and didn’t want to go out. 

“Do you want me to go out and bring something back?”

“Where would you go?” 

I was hard-pressed to think of a place that had take-out fish. I ran a few places across my mind and then thought of Long John Silver's. 

“How about I go to Long John Silver’s and bring something back? They have fish meals.”  

“I’m not allowed to have Long John Silver’s.” 

“Why? 

“Lucy said it’s not good for me, and I’m not allowed to have it.” 

“Well, … (I chose my words very carefully) Lucy is not here anymore; you want to give it a shot?” 

Dad looked up at me, who knows what was going through his mind at that point. Was he thinking, finally, I can break some rules? Or was he thinking, “I always wanted to taste that stuff?”

He didn’t decide right away; he was still hesitating. I suggested to him, why don’t I go get some, bring it home, and you can sample it, and see if you will like the fish from Long John’s? If not, we can toss it and never do it again. 

He gave the idea a lukewarm “Okay.” 

I was off to the local Long John Silver’s. I told the crew behind the counter the story of why I was there, and the gang had a good laugh. The guy in charge said, “Well, let me put in a few extra crumbles; people really like the crumbles. We normally charge an extra fee for the crumbles, but for your Dad, let’s make sure he is well taken care of.” 

Do they charge extra for the crumbles? I didn’t know the crumbles were such a big deal. I got home, and of course, the grease smell was potent. I was fearful he would turn up his nose at the smell of grease. He looked at the meal in the little square box and began. I said nothing. The next thing I knew, he was whipping his hands with a napkin and almost had a smile on his face. 

For the next year, I’m talking about a year here … Dad wanted Long John Silver’s fish. The local Long John’s crew looked forward to me walking in every Friday night. I was getting tired of Long John Silver’s fish. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could continue this Friday night tradition.  

I noticed a new restaurant opening about a mile west of the house. It was called Lincoln Square. I suggested that we go out to a restaurant and eat fish on Friday night. (That way, I could order something besides fish.) 

Dad was not sure that’s what he wanted to do. On the way to church one Sunday morning, I noticed cars in the parking lot of the new restaurant. I pulled in and went inside. The place was still in the remodeling stage. The owner was in the building. I told him my story, he laughed and said, “Is-a-your-father-in-a-da-car? ” I said, “Yes.” The owner (I don’t remember his name) went out to the car and did a number on my Dad, 

“Georgie-you-a-cum-ah-to-my-place, 

I-take-a-good-care-of you!

I-a-make-a-da-best-fish-dinner-you've-ever-a-seen!” 

But Lincoln Square is another story all by itself.

And that is the reason I decided to stop at Long John Silver's and go down memory lane today. 

Life can be wonderful if you just let it be what it is.