Ok, so Saturday night I went to a "story party." Essentially, the deal was that we would eat potluck, and then everyone would share a story with the group. It could be anything we wanted, the only restriction being that it needed to be between 5-30 minutes in length. I had planned on telling a fictional story, but it quickly became apparent that everyone else was going to tell a story from their own lives. I chickened out on my bit of fiction (based on true events though it may have been), and told some lame thing about jury duty. Anyway, since I took the time to write the damn thing, I figure I might as well throw it out there for the world to enjoy or ignore as it sees fit.
It was late afternoon, and Otis was sitting outside the mall eating an early dinner. It was Thursday, so he was washing down his Subway sandwich with an Orange Julius. He had spread a napkin across his lap so that he wouldn’t spill anything on his polyester slacks. After three years as a mall security guard, he had learned how embarrassing it could be to spill anything on them. He was about halfway through his turkey club, when he heard two men talking excitedly as they exited the mall. They weren’t speaking English, and when Otis turned his head he realized that they must be from the Middle East. Immediately suspicious, he shouted “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”Posted by Jason at May 31, 2004 02:38 PMThe shorter of the two men whirled around and yelled, “None of your fucking business. You got a problem with us, you come over here!” He stopped only briefly to glare at Otis, and then kept moving towards the parking lot. Otis was a little taken aback by this reaction, and nearly spilled his Orange Julius on his shoes. He decided not to pursue the matter, but as the two men pulled away in their Dodge Stratus he made a note of the license plate number.
After throwing away the rest of his sandwich, Otis headed back into the mall and made his way over to the police substation. He was convinced that those two Arabs were up to something, but was also well aware that his jurisdiction pretty much ended at the end of the parking lot. If he told the police about it they’d be able to take care of it.
At the substation, Sergeant Franklin looked up just in time to see Otis coming from across the food court. He said, “Hey, Bill-- I gotta piss. You mind watching things here for a second?” Bill grunted a vaguely positive reaction, only to look up and see Otis walk through the door and give him a snappy salute. He cussed under his breath, then said “Hi Otis. What can I do for you today?” When Otis didn’t move he continued, “Uh…at ease, Otis.”
Staring straight ahead, Otis said, “Sir, I believe two terrorists have just left the mall. I have the license and description of their vehicle right here.” He flashed his “Spongebob Squarepants” notebook and looked at him expectantly.
“Terrorists?”
“Yes, sir. They were shouting at each other as they left the mall, and refused to answer my questions as to their intentions. One of them was about 6 foot 4, and full of muscle. The other one was shorter. I think he was the leader. They were driving a Dodge Stratus from Enterprise, license number—“
Bill interrupted him. “Hang on, Otis. Now what exactly makes you think these guys were terrorists again?”
“Sir, they were two Arab men who acted very hostile.”
Bill took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying not to sound irritated. “Otis, just because someone is pissed off doesn’t necessarily make them a terrorist.”
Otis seemed to waver slightly. “Yes, sir. I know that, but my spi- er, I just have a hunch, is all.”
Bill sighed. “Ok, Otis. Tell you what. If you can read me the license number of the car, we’ll look into it, ok?”
Bill wrote down the license number as Otis read it to him, and made a mental note to kick Frank’s ass. When he finished, he said, “Thanks, Otis. We’ll run this through the computer and see what turns up.” When Otis continued to stand in front of him, he added “Uh…good work, Otis. Dismissed.” Otis spun around on his heel and strode out of the substation, his back ramrod straight.
As the door closed behind him, Otis remembered that he hadn’t given a description of the terrorists. He turned around to talk to the police again, and as he did he caught Bill crumpling up a piece of paper and tossing it into the trash. His heart sank. Just once he’d like for those guys to take him seriously. He sighed and looked at his watch. It was time for him to go back on duty anyway.
At the end of his shift, Otis walked into the break room and plopped down into a chair, looking disgusted. The night guard was in another chair working on a crossword puzzle. As Otis walked in he put down his it down and said, “Hey, Otis—what’s up?”
“Aw, nothin’. I saw a couple terrorists today, but when I told the police about it I don’t think they believed me.”
“What? Terrorists?”
“Yeah. They were leaving the mall talking Ayrab, and sounded real mad. When I asked them what they were doing, I thought they were going to kill me. My spidey-sense was tingling and everything.”
Harold laughed. “Man, that’s not your spidey-sense, that’s Selsun Blue.”
Otis looked hurt. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, sure. So anyway—what’d the police say when you told them about it?”
“Nothin’ really, just that they’d look up the license number and see what came up.” He left out the part about the note going in the garbage.
“Huh. So what makes you think they don’t believe you?”
Otis shrugged his shoulders. Harold pondered him for a moment. He was older than Otis by about ten years, and had been working as a security guard for a lot longer than him, too. He knew that in the best of times the police didn’t always respect their opinions, especially when they were unsolicited. He said, “Well, if you’re sure they’re terrorists, why don’t you call the FBI?”
Otis looked at him like he’d never heard of the FBI before. “The FBI? You think so?”
“Sure, why not? Terrorists are more of an FBI thing anyway.”
“But it’s after 5. Are they still there?”
Harold shrugged. “Hell if I know. If nothing else you can leave a message for them.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I think I’ll do that. Thanks.” He walked over to the phone and started flipping through the phone book hanging on a chain next to it. He dialed the number of the local FBI office, and waited for someone to answer. “It’s ringing,” he whispered to Harold. Harold gave him a thumbs-up signal.
Of course, since it was after 5:00, his phone call got routed to voice mail. “You have reached the FBI office in Athens, Georgia. Our office hours are 8 to 5 Monday through Friday. If this is an emergency, please call 1-800-555-6833. Otherwise leave a message at the tone.” Unfortunately, Otis didn’t hear most of this because he was busy whispering to Harold.
“I got their answering machine! What should I do?”
“Well, leave a message!”
“Ok!”
“-essage at the tone. … beep!”
“Uh, yeah. This is Otis Crankengescheitmeyer, social security number 653-77-9384. I am calling to report two suspected terrorists last seen at the Georgia Square Mall, driving a Dodge Stratus, license plate number FYG 7934. Both are Ayrabs. One is approximately 6 foor 4 inches, the other about 5 foot 10 inches. Both have dark hair. Uh…I think they’re dangerous. You can call me at 555-4426 for more information. Uh…bye.” Otis hung up, his heart pounding in his chest.
As Harold folded his newspaper and got ready to head out on rounds, he said, “Well, there you go. That should take care of it.” Otis just nodded and smiled at him, then grabbed his jacket and went home for the night.
The next day as Otis was eating his lunch he heard a couple of African American males talking excitedly. He said, “Hey, what are you guys talking about?”