TEAM ROOT DOWN MEETS THE WOMAN LYING IN KOOL AID'S YARD

Wake up, much like I've been doing every Saturday lately...about 6 o'clock...scarf an apple, a banana, a bowl of cereal and two mugs of coffee. Took two ibuprofen and stretched my body out for about thirty minutes. Was feeling good and needed to because today we'd be doing a new high: seven miles. Drove the route with my lovely wife the night before and just driving it made me tired. I passed out face down at about 10:15. Early for a Friday night. Early for any night, my lovely wife mentioned. Yeah, what can I say, I'm an awesome date.


I'm driving over to Kool Aid's place as that's where we agreed to start at straight-up 8. When I turn the corner, there's a fairly large woman laying in his sideyard with her hands clutching to her head and face. She's on her side, but is making the swaying movements with her shoulders and legs. I pull into the driveway and hop out quickly approaching her because, well, I'm a Boy Scout. I know how to handle mentally ill women laying in residential areas. Totally. There's a merit badge for it. First, I examine the area for any contraband, blood, medication, needles. I look closely to make sure he's not packing heat or bearing a knife that could be turned on me. I look for blood on her. No evidence of anything. I then crouch down next to her and begin speaking to her.



"Ma'am, are you in pain? Do you need help?"



I put my hand on her shoulder and see if I can stir her a little. She makes no noise, but only slight motions. There's the faint sound of some moaning and sniffling. Her body is cold, but she's not shivering. Very still. Otherwise very quiet.



"I'm going to call for help. Stay still." I stand up and look further down the block. There's a woman about six houses down in the street speaking to a man in a pickup looking down in my direction. I hold my hands out to signal to her. She begins to walk my direction hurredly.



She rushes up to me and begins whispering. "We've already called the cops. I don't know what's going on. We just saw her as we turned the corner and she was stumbling around so we called an ambulance. You think she's on drugs or something?"



"If not, she should be. When did you call her in?"



"Seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes ago."



I tell her I'm going to call again. I don't have any problem calling again to tell them to hurry. Especially when the lady is dangerously close to I-27's access road and interstate. I kept envisioning her rising to her feet and then sprinting onto the interstate. I go into Kool's house and say, "There's a lady laying in your yard. Let me borrow your phone." Kool Aid, looking at me stunned, hands over his cell phone. I fire another call into 911.



We go outside and stand over her with the other couple like wildlife dying from a gun wound. Kool Aid offers up a towel and we just sort of toss it over her. She kicks it off. I mention to Kools that she's starting to take on the manneurisms of WWE's Mankind.



She's just laying there clinging to her head. I was thinking she got popped in the head or something. Upon closer inspection, I notice that she's absolutely filthy. Her bare feet are covered in dirt and grime. She has something scribbled on her arm. Her cold skin is purplish in spots. I hear sirens nearing. Moments later, the first respondants arrive--a fire truck. AFD's finest hop out and approach her cautiously--even though a little more abruptly than I first did. They start trying to pull her arms away from her face. She tightens up and starts to shake away from them. Starting to become obvious that she doesn't want help.



"If you don't cooperate with us, we're going to call the police. Oh, nevermind, here they are."



About three squad cars arrive. The fire department describe their account. APD walks up to her and begin yelling at her. They start trying to diffuse her by grabbing her feet and her hands. She quickly pulls her foot back, raises it in the air and takes a swooping chop at one the policeman's gnads. I think she might've caught part of it because he became really agitated at this point. The struggle continues. I'm starting to wish that I had a video camera on me. It's beginning to turn into a COPS episode. By the way, I never mentioned that COPS is taping in the Yellow. Dope stuff. I'm thinking about following APD around to see if I can get on national television. Like walk by on a sidewalk as a guy's getting a sobriety test or something.



Swept the police blotter this morning. Don't have any more info the woman. Pretty decent start to the morning. I did however, find on the blotter my traffic accident from Thursday in which, while stationary in traffic, a punk teenager's Bigfoot pick up rolled back into the hood of my Civic and the trailer hitch basically put a whooping on my car. Check this out.
I was civil. Didn't whoop his ass or anything. Pretty aggravated. I just want State Farm to tell me my car's going to last 200,000 miles and they're going to fix it to the condition to make this possible. I mean, it was on pace to do so until youngblood's "transmission slipped" and put his truck on my hood. This is what we call a "bad touch."


Anyhow, they put Womankind on a gurney and took her away in an ambulance. Kools and I decided to depart on our jog--now 17 minutes late. Those minutes are precious when you're talking about morning traffic on our seven-mile route.


Incredible jog. The ibuprofen might have been the difference. The pace was good. Hit some hills. My legs got slightly cramped on about the fifth mile, but managed to jog it out. Uneventful until we got bumrushed by some animal that was part squirrel, part wolf. This thing came flying out from the side of a house. Both Kools and I were zoning and not really watching the peripherals until this object begins dashing towards us. Kools thought it was a squirrel, I thought it was a gorilla. After a few moments to think about it, I believe it was a dog. I caught a close glimpse of it and it looked like this.

The Yellow's official bird is a wandering dog. That's how many there are. I hate pet owners in this city. It appears to be just too difficult to keep a dog in your possession at all times--whether on a leash or behind a fence. I think that a city's population of wandering dogs is a direct reflection on the graduation rate of the city. That and the number of Nascar bumper stickers. Might be a correlation there.

This week, Kools and I will attempt, wait, not attempt...do eight miles. I'm taking orders on Team Root Down shirts. These are going to be the absolute illest shirts you've ever seen.

Keep your dog on a leash or behind a fence or they might catch a bad one on the chin. You don't want that.