Officious official spoils the day

It was one of those tiny instants in life, one that should be forgotten at once – except that I’ve stuffed it into one corner of my brain, convenient for mulling over during otherwise down time.

Saturday was a perfectly lovely day, the kind we tolerate too much heat and too much cold for the delight of living through autumn in the South. The occasion: The Dragon Boat Race & International Festival. We missed the first annual, making the second annual that much more appealing.

We took the golf cart and drove to golf cart nirvana – Drake Field, packed with the little dears – but we noticed a place we could park in the shade near the fire chief’s car, much closer to the field and lake where all the eating and singing, racing and dancing went on.

The mission of the fire department, we’d soon learn, was to defend the honor of the Drunken Dragon, crewed by volunteers and members.

A couple of fellows (neither firefighters nor drunk) stood by a metal gate large enough to drag a boat trailer through, and suggested we might want to move over under the trees a little bit in case they needed to open the gate.

Sure, no problem, and we moved it a few feet, then walked out around to the main gate, thinking we’d have to buy tickets. Didn’t need to. There was no charge, other than by purveyors of T-shirts and raffle tickets – perfectly acceptable for a fundraising event like this.

Got to see only a few seconds of racing, in which the fire/police department won in a video-finish. Bought some lunch, carried it out to eat in the comfort of our golf cart, then went back through the side gate for one last walk-around. Got to visit with folks we seldom see any more, including Beth Viall and her grandtwins, all the old crowd, plus a couple of younger generations. Dave adores little babies and toddlers, and I think he ooh’ed over every one in the park.

We worked our way back to the side gate and our golf cart, when an officious fellow we had not seen before planted himself between me and the gate, and said, “You’ll have to go back and go out through the main gate.”

I smiled, pointed, and said, “Thank you, but there’s our golf cart right there.”

“I understand. You still have to go out by the main gate,” Officious said.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” I persisted, no longer smiling. “That’s our buggy right there. We’ve already enjoyed the races. We can just slip around here at the end of the gate.”

“You can’t go through there,” he reiterated. “There’s poison ivy back there.”

Poison ivy? Poison ivy? Oooooh, I’m so scared. I tried to go around him, and I began to explain that I grew up in the country and despite my rubbing against it all my life, the noxious vine had never, ever, bothered me.

Actually I did have family bragging rights when I was a kid. My brother would develop seeping, white blisters merely by walking through the smoke of burning poison ivy. I could pull the stuff up bare-handed with impunity.

Officious repositioned himself so that I would have had to push him to get by but I figured that would get me charged with assault and battery. Come to think of it, if I had let him put a hand on me, I could have screamed and fallen to the dirt and charged him with assault and battery.

He wore no identification, there were no signs bearing the warning “Danger. Poison Ivy. Proceed at Your Own Risk,” no police in sight. I turned around to see where Dave was. He was heading for the main gate. I noticed that Officious’ colleagues were drifting away, looking rather embarrassed.

So, OK, what should I have done?

Turned back, thanking him for protecting me against myself?

Shoved him aside and stomped defiantly through the (invisible) poison ivy?

Or lectured him about his scurrilous disregard of Peachtree City’s hospitality?

You guessed it. I caved. I felt like a whupped kid.

So much has bubbled to the surface of my mind this week. I should have said, “May I see your I.D.? I want to talk to your supervisor.”

Or, “Do you know who I am?” That wouldn’t work; I’m not anybody.

Poison ivy! Ssshhhshhh.

Beware of officious gatekeepers.

Sallie his I.D. would have said S.B.

Submitted by Robert W. Morgan on Sat, 10/11/2008 - 6:24am.

He was busy that day being rude with others as well. He probably won't be at the Air Show since the Kiwanians run that.

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Morgan : Go around the common folks

Submitted by Nitpickers on Tue, 10/14/2008 - 2:41am.

Remember Cynthia McKinney's attitude about skipping the cops who were checking identity in D. C.? Then she whomped him for asking!

Rules do not apply to some, I suppose, but when straw bosses are set up to avoid perceived potential problems, it is better to humor them!

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