As I woke up this morning, I decided to talk with God. I told him that I was tired of being angry.
While getting dressed, a question popped into my mind: “Why are you angry?” Without hesitation, I answered: “Of being wrong when I know I’m right.”
Those words resonated with me after the situation I found myself in once again on Friday. Every April and August, it seems the Virginia City fathers surrender the town to groups of people who neither act as tourists nor guests.
August it is Hot August Nights, with classic cars parked in such a way the day before the actual event that I and others making deliveries cannot do our jobs. On Friday, it was the Virginia City Grand Prix and one of Storey County’s Sheriff Deputys.
As I dropped down Sutton Street with the intent to turn right onto E Street and make my way up the hill to St. Mary’s in the Mountain Catholic Church, I had a man wearing a yellow reflective vest try to stop me. He claimed the roadway was close to anyone not associated with the Prix.
“On what authority?” I asked.
“Mine,” he said.
“Well too hell with that since I don’t see a badge on you!” I returned as I moved forward around the corner.
He stepped in front of my truck, and I pressed down on the gas pedal while holding down the clutch. The engine revved a little, and as I lifted my foot off the clutch, the truck drove forward a few inches to a foot.
“Let the asshole go!” he called to those gathering around him.
After delivering my papers, I headed up the hill to C Street, towards Mill Street, and onto E Street from the opposite end. As I approached the Silverland Inn’s driveway, a woman in a reflective yellow vest stepped in front of my truck to stop me from entering the business’s private property and delivering my newspapers.
Slowing enough for her to move out of my way, I did not stop. Just as I pulled in front of the motel doors, a sheriff’s vehicle rolled up behind me.
His first words were, “Did you threaten to run a man over earlier?”
“No.” I said flatly.
“The man and a bunch of others said you did.”
“Anyone swearing out a complaint?”
“No, I get the frustration, but you could be a little nicer. They are guests here, after all.”
“Guest don’t act that way in my house. And if they do, they are shown the door.”
“How long have you been delivering papers up here?”
“About three years.”
“I’ve been putting up with it for 36 years.”
“I didn’t know they started deputies while they are still suckling at their mama’s tit.”
He turned red in the face from either anger or embarrassment, but both for getting caught in a stupid statement akin to a lie.
“Well they have a permit for this event…” he started.
“But not to block two-way roads from being used until tomorrow,” I interrupted.
“Yes, they do,” he said.
“I’ll bet you that their permit does not say that,” I said. “I’ll go so far as to say they don’t have the authority to block driveways to businesses either. That is a job for law enforcement, which is why you’re not out there working that street.”
“I can see there’s no talking to you,” he said as he started for his cruiser.
I wanted to be a smartass in the worst way, saying, “No, it’s not that you can’t talk to me, it’s you can’t argue something you know is wrong.” I kept my mouth shut.
After delivering to the motel, I returned to E Street and crossed over Mill Street, getting back on route. When I got to the Storey County Courthouse, where I deliver papers to the County Recorders’ office, I asked to see a copy of the event permit for the Grand Prix. And exactly as I thought, nowhere on the sheet of paper does it say a civilian can block another civilian from moving freely through the streets, nor does it say a civilian can stop another civilian from going into a business driveway or parking lot.
I can add further credence to my point as the sheriff’s office cited a race participant for trespassing on private property and had to force the organizers to create a pathway for pedestrians.
Come August, if I cannot use C Street or any other street in Virginia City for my job, the businesses I can’t get to won’t get papers. Like I said at the start, I’m tired of being angry and tired of being right and treated as if I’m wrong.
The Old Blog in the Desert 