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.” 

TAYLOR’S PUB - PENDLETON

TAYLOR’S PUB - PENDLETON 

By Duncan 

You would think I’m going to talk about the quality, taste, and presentation of the food at this restaurant. And you might be right. But the important part of the story is the person I’m going to meet. 

This story starts in 1990. I was getting ready to sacrifice myself for the institution of marriage again. This seemed like a good idea at the time; looking back, well, let’s not get ahead of the story.  

I married, and it had all the trappings: the dress, cake, flowers, friends, and professional photographs. One afternoon, I came home, and my new bride had all the photographs from the professional photographer on the floor in front of her, and she was crying. 

It seemed she was not at all happy with the quality of the photographs. I tried to assure her they were fine; they looked great. But she was having nothing of it. This conversation became a sticking point in her crawl. She was extremely disappointed.

She made the suggestion that I was as good as or way better than the photographer that “we” hired to take our pictures. “We” should go into the wedding photography business. At that point in my life, I was what might be called an avid amateur photographer. I had my own dark room, and I developed my own film and printed my black and white stuff in my dark room. In her eyes, I was a “professional.” 

That is where the mistakes started. She had already found a woman at work who was looking for a wedding photographer. She told the woman at work that “we” were in the wedding photography business. 

I tried to tell my blushing bride that I knew nothing about taking wedding pictures. She told me we were already scheduled to take this “Gal at Work” wedding picture. I, of course, tried to figure out what I would need to do to pull this off. I was scared to death. As it turns out, I did take the wedding pictures and got through the process. But I knew, looking at the product we provided, it needed a lot of help. Brides back then were still expecting their pictures in an album. This was the film days, and digital photography was not anywhere on the horizon. 

My first wedding 

As it turned out, I had another wedding to photograph about 3 months down the line. I needed help. I was way out of my league. I looked in the newspaper and noticed a group called Professional Photographers of America, or something like that, that was meeting at a hotel on the northeast side of Indianapolis. I decided to go over to the meeting and see what I could learn, if anything. 

I arrived at the hotel with mixed emotions. I was simply a novice, a rube, a nobody, and I was walking into a group of professionals? How dare I think that I would be accepted. I knew I would not be laughed out of the room. 

I assumed the evening would go like this. We are professional photographers; we are not here to teach anyone about anything, so you need to move along. What we know, we keep to ourselves. It's a secret.  

I stood in the doorway of a very large room. People were milling around the room. Some had a cocktail in their hands, and others were involved in conversation. I was frozen in time. I didn’t enter or back out of the open double doors. I happen to notice a woman looking at me from across the room. She excused herself and came walking up to me. 

“May I help you?” 

“I was looking for a meeting with a Professional Photographers Group.”

“Well, you have found us. Are you a professional photographer?”

“No, I have only shot one wedding, and it was not very good, so I thought I would seek advice and help.” 

“Excuse me, did you say you have photographed one wedding? Did you get paid to photograph the wedding?” 

“Yes, yes, I was paid. Do you need to know how much?”  

She laughed out loud. My heart sank to my knees; this is where I was going to get tossed out of the building. 

“My name is Nancy. If you got paid to take a wedding, you sir, are a professional photographer. I want you to come and sit by me at this meeting. We need to get to know more about you.” 

I didn’t realize it that night, but the woman who introduced herself to me was one of the best-known wedding photographers in Indiana. She would normally take about 70 weddings a year, 300 high school graduation pictures, and other personal photographs in her studio in Anderson, Indiana. She was a “Force.” 

She and others at the table asked how I found my first wedding. They seemed more interested in my “marketing skills” than my photography skills. 

I was told to stop using the local drugstore to have my color film processed. There were professional labs all over the United States. I was given several to consider. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was I needed to buy a film by the brick. So that the bride's dress will be the same “white” in every picture. A brick of film means that a pack of ten rolls of film was made and processed at the same time. Buy film by the brick.

After shooting my first wedding using their suggestions, I placed my photographs on the dining room table. I could not believe the difference in the quality. It was overwhelming. I lost control of my emotions. I realized I was a much better photographer than I ever imagined I would or could be. I just could not believe the difference. My pictures were better than the guy we hired for our wedding. 

Over the years, I got to know Nancy Bailey much better. She is a force of her own. You pick up little clues from her and the group that make you a better photographer. I photographed weddings for about 10 years. 

Our “we” became a “me,” and I found myself photographing weddings without the same “zest” that I once had. Wedding photography and marriage for “me” had become a solo business. I stood in the back of the church with my camera on a tripod to capture the first kiss of the wedding. Before the kiss were the “words” that all brides said.  

“I’ll love you till the day I die.” It was like a knife that went through me every time I heard the words. I had to stop doing these weddings.

My last professional wedding was also fraught with digital cameras. Everyone with a digital cell phone or camera became a “photographer.” I was competing with Grandma at the wedding for that perfect shot. It was time for me to pull out of the wedding photography business. I didn’t have the temperament for it anymore. 

 

George R. Duncan (My Father) elbows on a card table in my basement. 

I had given him a red hat. He would only pose for me IF he could wear the red hat.   

For the last 33 years, Nancy and I have remained friends. Of course, we don’t have the same interests now. She has sold her studio in Anderson and purchased a home in Fishers, Indiana, and Florida. I stop by and have lunch with her when I’m in Florida. But we never seemed to be able to get together when she was in Indiana for the summer. I pressed her on that, and finally, this busy woman agreed to have lunch with me. 

NANCY BAILEY 

Amazingly, a “professional photographer" doesn't want their picture taken. I’m sure she will call the lighting terrible and the background atrocious. And all the other little things that could make the picture better. But I’m sitting across from her in a booth at Taylor’s Pub with a cell phone; what you see is what you get. 

Nancy and her husband, Allen, spend half their time in Florida and half in Indiana. Nancy is as busy taking photographs in Florida as she is here in Indiana. 

We covered her business, and she decided to end the wedding photography side of the business, too. She is taking pictures of all the people in her HOA in Florida. And, of course, she knows everyone in addition. 

We had a great visit for about three hours. Victoria, our waitress, kept asking if we were ready to order. I had eaten at Taylor’s Pub before and liked their cup of French onion soup very much. I asked Victoria what was the most ordered item on the menu. She had to think, and it was either pizza or the chicken wrap. I went with the wrap, and Nancy ordered a salad. 

I promised that I would be a food critic today. Here is my opinion. Even Victoria, our waitress, wanted to know how everything was. I asked her if she wanted me to grade the meal on a scale of 1-5 or 1-10. After thinking for a few seconds, she said, “Okay, 1-10.”

The French onion soup was cool, not hot, and had little flavor. I give the soup a score of “3.” The wrap was “acceptable.” I give it a score of “6.” I asked Victoria not to go to the kitchen and give my review. I’m only telling “her” my opinion. I’m sure it's tough in today's work environment to get people to work, and the cooks can have their challenging days, too. In the past, the French onion has been excellent. 

 

Photo credit:  Victoria, our waitress.  DUNCAN - NANCY BAILEY