The phone rang last night and it was Ben with a story to tell. He was out on beat patrol in beautiful Portland earlier in the afternoon when a man pulling a lawn mower on a trailer tells Ben there might be a dead man lying face down in a backyard off 42nd Street.
Ben drives to the address and, sure enough, there's a man lying face down against a backyard fence wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Ben said he could tell by the skin showing he wasn't dead. Ben pokes him with his Maglite, "Party's over bud, time to move on." The man, reeking of body odor and alcohol, staggers to his feet.
It takes Ben a shocked second to realize it's none other than the terrorist from my childhood, Harold Tabor. He's living back in Portland, Louisville.
Flashback 45 years:
My brother and I are running around with Harold who has a screwdriver tip embedded in the end of a broken off broom stick. Harold and I have climbed atop an old spring house off Old Westport Road near our neighborhood. Brad has his hands on the edge of the roof, still trying to get up top.
Harold takes his homemade spear and starts stabbing the roof between Brad's fingers. Brad is hanging there, unable to let go, his eyes wide pleading with Harold to stop. Harold keeps stabbing and laughing. He was having a good ol' time.