We Suspected He Lied About His Age

A few days ago, while sorting through still more stuff to throw out or give away, I found some old newspaper clippings I’ve kept since the 70s. One of them reported an adventure involving my former employer, the late CPA. For a short time, Mr. CPA was sort of a local hero. My co-worker, Esther, and I weren’t terribly impressed by the newspaper article. Nothing that man did surprised us.

Mr. CPA was, most likely, past retirement age when I worked for him. He earned his brief claim to fame by chasing down two teen-aged purse-snatchers. He might have been old, but he was feisty. Mr. CPA rarely discussed his personal life with Esther and me. However, he did mention that he had grown up in New York City. We figured that he probably had some previous experience with muggers.

Although he was our boss, Mr. CPA seldom commu-nicated directly with us about anything. (He left lots of notes; the man would have loved e-mail.) He never told us what happened at the shopping center that November evening. Esther and I read about it in the newspaper, like everyone else did.

Mr. CPA and his wife had finished shopping and were walking to their car. That’s when one of the teens yanked Mrs. CPA’s purse from her shoulder and took off across the parking lot, followed by his accomplice.

Mr. CPA took off after them. He chased the thieves through the parking lot, across the street, and into another parking lot. By the time he got to the second parking lot, another man had joined the chase. Mr. CPA and Good Samaritan cornered the teens against a fence, and someone called the police.|

Mr. CPA testified as the star witness at the teens’ trial. The newspaper article stated that he had refused to reveal his age in court. A court official told the reporter that Mr. CPA was “in his 60s.” Esther and I snickered when we read that. We suspected that our boss had lied to the court official. We were pretty sure that he would never see 70 again.

Apparently, Mr. CPA swore to tell the truth about everything except his age.

Post from the Past

[Note: St. Patrick's Day will soon be here, so this week I’m recycling an entry that was originally posted in March 2006.]

Every year around St. Patrick’s Day, I think about a fellow I met when I was a junior in high school. He had an Irish last name, an Elvis haircut, and a whole lot of freckles. We dated for approximately four months when he was on the outs with the girl he had gone steady with since he was about thirteen.

“Jeremy” liked cars. He liked to see how fast they could go. He also liked to see how fast he they could stop. (Hey, former neighbors, now you know how all those skid marks got on the road in front of your houses.)

During one of the several times that he was stopped for speeding, he told the policeman that he was “just burning out the carbon.” That excuse failed to impress the policeman, and Jeremy ended up in court the next day.

The judge he appeared before had a reputation for being unsympathetic to teenage boys with a hot foot on the gas pedal. When Jeremy’s case was called, the judge told him, “Son, there are three rates of speed in this town, slow, medium, and good morning, Judge.”