gardrastic: (mandala)
[personal profile] gardrastic
I've just recently got back home from spending a couple days with the family. My folks live in one of the more barren bits of Iowa, which is good by me--general misanthropy is partially an inheritable trait, I'm pretty sure. Their property bumps up against a big swath of DNR-protected land, basically a chunk of forest and whatnot that they refuse to let someone turn into cornfields. (To couch it in libertarian terms, a miles-wide footprint of the very boot stamping on humanity's face FOREVER!) But in short: really quiet.

Around, oh, 4ish AM or so, Zeke suddenly goes nuts. (Zeke's what passes for the family watchdog these days, a mini-schnauzer of the decidedly non-yappy variety.) At the door is a decidedly stressed-out kid (maybe 20 at the outmost) babbling apologies and something about his car being in a ditch a few miles down the road and something about being chased by a truck. He's in pajama bottoms, a jacket, no shirt, but remarkably (on later analysis) does have shoes on. Alcohol on the breath. Father and I at first are both erring on the side of general compassion--some people do not handle panic very well, coherency-wise, after all. Dad more or less coaches him through calling 911, and he's even less coherent there. I get him to sit down, but the kid's definitely not calming down in any way; my own adrenaline is now in low-key steady-drip mode as it's getting increasingly clear this isn't just a bad panic-reaction from a fellow who's perhaps had a bit too much to drink and freaked out at a minor road accident.

He's back on his feet and incoherently angry at being asked his name (never did find that out). It's an unspoken understanding at this point we're simply containing him till a deputy manages to get out our way, which there's really no telling how long it'll be given the boonies situation. Father's talking to the kid the while, whose manner is now pretty much unpredictable--he's now going through bursts of incoherently mumbling about needing to go and trying to leave. I'm in the background hoping he doesn't get a violent snap going, and especially hoping he doesn't produce any sort of weapon from out the pockets of his jacket, where his hands keep going--I figure my reaction in that instance will be to grab the rather heavy decorative clay mug (filled with loose change and bric-a-brac) on the desk I'm by and introducing it with force to the agitated young fellow's head. I really don't want to do this or anything akin to it, and luckily Odin the Sky Father was paying attention.

As such things do most of the time, it ended in a thankful anticlimax, with a deputy pulling up the drive sooner than I'd expected. Kid goes out the door, and it takes the officer a few minutes to convince him into the car, whereupon he was driven off. No statement taken or anything of that nature, leaving things a bit mysterious--wouldn't shock me if they'd already been expecting to collect him.

So, either on an exciting combination of chemicals he shouldn't have been (mom guessed meth, saying he was acting pretty similarly to meth-addled folks that show up semi-routinely at the emergency room (meth production is one of the unofficial cornerstones of this particular area of the country, though missourah's still number 1, I'm pretty sure--Iowa may be higher per capita, or vice versa)), or conversely, wasn't on something he should of been. Or a combination of the two, perhaps.

One very interesting morning. Took about half an hour personally for the adrenaline to wear off, whereupon I slept for another hour or so. I'm curious to know what the full story is, and likely never will.

Definitely one of my most memorable events this year, and slipped in right before deadline, too!
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