A Kernel of Truth

It was one of those shifts where we ran from call to call for several hours. It’s part of why I loved evening shift, it was busy when you showed up and usually died off towards the end so you could get caught up. But even though I liked being busy, the pace can still get to you after a while.

So, by the time I was six hours in, and on my eighth call (my third motor vehicle collision) of my 10-hour shift, I was starting to feel just a bit of an edge. It was time to get this done and for the calls to stop so I could get caught up. This particular “crash” was about the closest thing I had ever seen to a close call that wasn’t. The scuff on her bumper looked like 90% of it could have been wiped off with my thumb, the way my mother used to clean my face when I was 6 years old. The front bumper of the other car was no more dramatically damaged, and the guy driving it just wanted to get on his way. So did I.

I finished explaining the crash report and next steps to the two drivers and gave them each their copy of the report. As I started to head to my cruiser the woman driving the car that had been hit asked me if the other driver would be getting a ticket. I told her no. She asked why not.

I explained that proving what, if any, violation he actually committed in such a minor accident, and that her driving had no influence on the situation, was not going to fly in court. Let the insurance companies sort it out.

In a frustrated tone she snipped, “You can bet if this accident happened in New York he’d be getting a ticket.”

“Have your next accident in New York then.” I shrugged and walked away.

The problem with sarcasm is it has a kernel of truth. It may sound like a funny line, it may even really be funny. But there is a difference between a funny joke or a funny line, and a sarcastic line that is funny. That difference is the kernel of truth and problems can lurk inside that kernel.

In this case, the kernel of truth I offered was that I didn’t really care about her frustration or the emotions she was feeling. I didn’t care that she had been in this accident which, even though it was minor by my standards, can still be scary and upsetting for the person involved. I didn’t see her as a person.

Normally, the day shift supervisor doesn’t call you at 9:30 am when you worked until 4 am. So when my phone startled me awake, I figured something important was going on. I answered with a groggy, “Hello?”

“Hey, Fluffy.” (He called everyone Fluffy or Scooter.) “Did you tell some lady to have her next accident in New York?”

A small groan escaped me. “That’s out of context, but yes I said those words.”

“Well, she didn’t like it. Don’t do it again,” the Lt. said.

“Okay, boss.”

“Go back to sleep.” He hung up and I did indeed go back to sleep.

When I started my shift later that day I found out that the woman had called with several questions and comments, many of which my Lt supported me on. Even the dispatcher helped settle some of the bees in her bonnet. By both of their accounts, the vast majority of what she had going on was not my fault, or even really about the situation at all. But there was no denying that when she told them, “…and then he told me to have my next accident in New York” that I had created at least part of the situation.

Inserting even a moment between her comment and my retort would have allowed me to make a better choice. And here’s the thing, it wasn’t the day, or the shift. It wasn’t her attitude or what else I had going on. It was my decision, my action. Whatever the circumstances attending, I still chose to make the comment. That’s on me.