At 1:25 a.m. I drove downtown, partially asleep, to pick up a friend.
On the intersection of Main St. and 1st Ave. a red Volkswagon drunkenly crashed into a silver pick up truck, and then tried to drive away. In his alleged inebriated state, the driver ran over a couple of curbs and then turned back and parked next to the victimized truck, denying fault (don't ask me how I know this).
I left the scene to drop my friend at her apartment, but kept churning the driver's mental state in my mind. Finally, I dialled the GPD and reported the incident, just in case any of my (or anyone's) beloveds were hanging around The Top or Atlantic that night.
At 3:09 a.m. a thick Alachuan accent flooded my ear via cell phone. "Are you still waiting on 1st?"she asked. Of course not, it had been hours and I was tucked in bed. "Well, do you still want to report the incident?" asked the impatient policewoman.
It was two hours after I called. I'm guessing the drunk driver had driven (swerved/ricocheted) away. Pickup truck was left dented. Jaywalkers were left unprotected.
Doing the right thing can be so unsatisfying.