Six Felonies

I had taken a seat back by the new stone fireplace. Not because it was lovely and dark and cozy, but because the crazy man who smears feces in the restroom at the mall and attacked a manager at a fast food restaurant where I was eating was sitting up near the door where I usually sit. Not to speak ill of the mentally ill, but I wish his family could keep him at home or make sure he takes his medication. It also makes me nervous to share the street with him when he is driving.

Two women sat down at the table behind me. I was so engrossed in my paper I didn’t realize they were there until the conversation snippets began to seep into my consciousness.

“Six people out of my class of 52 were arrested for felonies--one for murder.”

Well, that brought me up with a start! Oh my goodness, I thought. Where in the world did she go to school? My high school class had 52 graduates, and amongst us we probably hadn’t had six DUIs in 45 years. Six felonies? And one a murder? I scooted back in my chair a little bit. The clanging from behind the counter bleeped out the next several sentences.

Then she referred to “the academy.” The Academy in local lingo usually meant the exclusive private boys school on the east side of the city, so that didn’t make much sense. She continued, “Some of those never finished.” Over the noise of latte creation from the front of the store I heard the words “chief,” and “officer,” and “firearms.” And then I realized . . . she was talking about a police academy class.

Mystery solved. I felt better. Or did I?