Not even close

I was reading a book entitled Unidentified Woman #15 by David Housewright [First Down and Out Books June 2020 – Copyright @ 2015].  The featured character, Roosevelt McKenzie, ponders the fact that a Minneapolis Star-Tribune “article dealt more with the manhunt involving eight squads, one ambulance, and one fire truck than the actual shooting.”  About that time, it was barely audible, but I heard the “whoop” of the beginning of a police car’s siren.  Next, I saw the blue and red lights blinking in my window.  I got up off my chair and went to the front door window to see a man down on my neighbor’s yard with two other men hovering over him.

The police cruiser pulled up to the curb and an officer got out of the car and scurried to the scene.  It was across the street, and I had a very good view of what was taking place, but I had no idea what had happened.  Did the guy fall on the ice?  Did he have a heart attack?  All I could see was his back.  He was wearing a white T-shirt, and he was lying on the ground on his left side, his knees bent slightly.

Before it was over, there were seven Des Moines squads, one ambulance, and a paddy wagon.  No firetruck.  So, after reading the passage in the book, I assumed the guy must have committed murder.  Not even close.

Before the first squad pulled up, two men were standing over the person on the ground.  They were not in uniform, so I figured they were good Samaritans.  Not even close.  After reading the Des Moines Police Case Summary Report (PCSR), I discover that the two men were bounty hunters working for a bail bondsman.  They had identified themselves to the police officer as “fugitive recovery agents.”

We sat outside on the stoop watching the action.  Stephanie could hear some of the conversations.  I didn’t have my hearing aids in my ears and couldn’t hear anything.  Police kept shining a light in the suspect’s eyes, and the paramedics from the Des Moines Rescue Ambulance were paying attention, as well.  The PCSR emphasizes that the suspect was pepper sprayed and handcuffed by the two vigilantes.  Both sides indicated so.  He ran a little over a block with his hands cuffed behind his back and pepper spray in his eyes.  He was tackled by one of the bounty hunters.  They were hovering over him like a hunter might stand proudly over his prey.

The presence of police power was overwhelming.  Even though it was an arrogant display of flashing lights and blue uniforms all over the place, the suspect was charged with trespass, interference with official acts, and possession of drug paraphernalia, all simple misdemeanors.  Compare how many squads show up in the inner ring suburb of Little Canada [in Minneapolis] for a murder to how many show up for three simple misdemeanors in Des Moines, Iowa.

Enough of the crying liberal in me.  There are several problems with what we witnessed.  In addition to the descriptions above (wanna-be police, more emergency vehicles and personnel than necessary), I looked into the suspect.  He is a 40-year-old Black male with a history of trespass, interference with official acts, and other misdemeanors.  He has one class “C” felony on his rap sheet, but he served no prison time because of The Pandemic. His only crime this particular night was walking into an apartment building when he was told to stay out.

This past week, we had a double murder occur at the far end of the block. Understandably, there were about seven police patrol cars on the street, along with the fire truck and ambulance. It was obvious from the media release that it was a murder/suicide without actually saying it. Also, the ambulance left the neighborhood without lights or sirens.

The following night, we heard the “whoop” of a police car siren, and saw a vehicle pull to the side of the road [M.L. King Jr. Blvd] about 150 feet from our house. Pretty soon, there were more than seven police cars on the block, not including the paddy wagon. There was no fire truck or ambulance at this scene.

Police had what appeared to be their weapons out, but it was hard to see in the dark. One by one, three young men exited the vehicle with their hands on their heads, walking backwards about 20 feet toward the officers at the rear of the car. Officers handcuffed each of them at the front of the patrol car. We saw an officer pop the trunk and look into it with his flashlight. Another opened the passenger door and shined the flashlight into the interior. Eventually, police vehicles left the street and the driveways until only one was left to watch over the impoundable car until it could be towed.

The following morning, I searched for the cause of the previous night’s entertainment. The driver of the vehicle allegedly “disobeyed a traffic control signal” and began to elude law enforcement. The driver was the only one of three detained for processing at the jail. He was released at 10:00 am the following morning, about twelve hours after being held in the pokey.

Last November, the neighborhood was again inundated with emergency vehicles when a young woman hanged herself in the woods on the other side of the levee.

With all this recent activity, you would think we live in a dangerous neighborhood. That’s debatable. Our neighbors are wonderful, decent, and welcoming residents. Our immediate neighbors represent a melting pot of people from different countries, backgrounds, and cultures. Not one of those incidents mentioned above had anything to do with the people who live in this neighborhood, with the exception of the murder/suicide. Trouble drives, runs, and walks into the neighborhood. Trouble does not exist in this neighborhood; it tends to drift into it.

***

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The Oasis

I got friends in low places
Where the whiskey drowns
And the beer chases my blues away
And I’ll be okay
Yeah, I’m not big on social graces
Think I’ll slip on down to the Oasis

Friends in low places – Garth Brooks

Country music is not my genre, but there are songs that can fit in the Country category and the Rock Category simultaneously. Music by The Marshall Tucker Band comes to mind. But one country song I could not avoid while living in Crawford County, Iowa, was Friends In Low Places.

Long before Garth Brooks recorded one of his most famous songs, the Oasis in Denison, Iowa, was exactly what Brooks described in his song. I have written about this bar previously at https://iowappa.com/?p=1898:

We pulled in the Oasis parking lot (Yes, in Denison, Iowa, there is a bar called the Oasis, and it was there long before Garth Brooks wrote his famous song Friends In Low Places).  Once inside, Homer went to the bar while Norton and I sat at a table in the darkest part of the bar.  Homer came to the table with three beers.  I drank that beer with no problem.  Besides Millie, the bartender, we were the only people in the bar.  Millie is another story for a future blog.

Recently, I discovered that the Oasis has closed “permanently.” The Oasis was along Highway 30 in Denison, and Highway 30 was my route to and from work. I stopped there often on my way home, but never on the way to work. I did encounter a few people who did stop there prior to their work shift, but not me.

If I could describe The Oasis as I knew it in the 1970s through 1980s, I would say it was similar to “Cheers,” but with a country flavor. It had its bartender Coach in Millie. Millie was tending bar when I was served in the 1960s, and she was still there when I left Denison in the early 1990s. There was a joke that when the bar sold, she went with it, like all the fixtures.

One afternoon, Byron, my co-worker, and I got off work early and decided to have a beer. We walked into The Oasis and sat at the bar. We were the only two customers in the establishment at the time. Millie was cleaning the big mirror behind the various bottles of liquor on the backside of the bar. I have never seen anyone clean the same spot over and over and over again like it took her that day. After several minutes, one of us asked (nicely, I should add) if we could get a couple of beers. She didn’t stop cleaning for a second, but said: “Can’t you see I’m busy!” And we waited a few more minutes until she was done cleaning the mirror and put away all her cleaning supplies, washed her hands, placed her hands on her hips and said, “what do you want?” We were regulars. She knew we wanted a can of Pabst and a bottle of Bud Lite. But that was Millie.

We weren’t the only regulars. There was LaDelle and Butch; Jerry and his wife; Marv; Pappi, the owner; Roger; the two businessmen next door; sometimes Chappy; and many more that would make the list go on and on.

One occasional customer would come in on a mid-afternoon and order two Pepsi’s. He pulled out a chair on one side of the square table and walked to the other side where he sat. Millie would bring the two Pepsi’s (after a number of visits she would greet him at the table with two Pepsi’s before he even ordered), and place one in front of him and the other in front of the vacant chair on the opposite side of the table from him. He would continue to talk to the invisible person on the other side of the table, and from time-to-time he could become quite hostile toward his guest. But they never got into a fight.

Late one night, when I was working the night shift, I came in and ordered a beer. I sat down with Gale and visited for the duration of that beer. As I was about to order another, Gale said that I shouldn’t drive home. He would drive my car to Vail and have Pappi pick him up and drive him back to Denison. I never argued. I wonder to this day what made them think I was drunk. It could be that they were used to me coming in around 5:00 pm rather than 10:30 pm. It doesn’t hurt to refrain from arguing with drunks and fools.

When I noticed last month that the Oasis was ‘permanently’ closed, I figured Millie retired and could not be replaced, or she went to that mirror-washing place in paradise. What would Denison’s Oasis be without Millie?

***

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Home Safety

A young Des Moines police officer who was helping us with a racoon issue hadn’t yet been indoctrinated into how to handle the perception of crime in our neighborhood. He asked us point blank, “Do you hear gun fire at night?” My day starts around 3:00 a.m., so gunfire occurs regularly, sometimes within the neighborhood, but also across the street where a paved trail system winds along a wooded area by the Des Moines River and poaching runs rampant. We have the luxury to lock the doors, pull the blinds, stay away from the windows and stick earbuds in to drown out the potential threat. Others aren’t so fortunate.

At our neighborhood association meeting, the appointed Des Moines community police officer gave an update on recent crime activity. There had been a domestic stabbing and a fatal gang related shooting. Even though both of these tragedies happened only a block away, they were targeted violent deaths. The presentation was delivered to reassure the audience that we needn’t be concerned for our safety or property values. Some didn’t buy into this message. Long-term residents sold their homes to investors to convert into rentals.

Flashing lights greeted us on our walk a short time ago. The usual police car and fire trucks were joined with the coroner and criminal investigation vans. The vehicles were parked at the entrance to the Tai Dam Village, which borders part of the Trestle to Trestle Trail in our neighborhood. Although the vehicles were running, there were no occupants and no way to find out what happened. So, we ordered an incident report from the Des Moines Police Department. 

It stated that a homeless woman was walking in the woods, going to a homeless camp when she noticed a female hanging from a tree. She called the police with someone else’s phone, because she did not have one. 

Officers located the female in the woods hanging from a tree. The female was hanging by her neck with a rope tied to a branch. Medics and ME were called and declared the female deceased. IDENT was called and processed the scene. ME and IDENT didn’t notice anything suspicious about the suicide. ME took possession of the body. The deceased female had no ID on her person and was not able to be identified. 

The incident occurred on 11/04/2024 at 13:51 and the case was closed on 11/05/2024.

The victim was Elizabeth Sue Phillips. According to her obituary, she enjoyed styling hair, going on walks, converting new items out of old ones, and spending time with friends and family, including her children, nieces and nephews. She also left behind a grandchild, “Although she left us too soon, Elizabeth’s memory will live on in the hearts of those who knew and loved her. She will be remembered for her vibrant personality and contagious laughter.”

Given Elizabeth’s hobbies, it made more sense for her to choose a different form of suicide. Hanging is violent. Men prefer it along with fatal gunshots. Women tend to prefer slicing wrists or swallowing a bottle of pills. What wasn’t in the police report was Elizabeth’s activities before her death. 

She had visited a campsite just down the trail from where her body was found. It was one of a number of encampments that lay scattered along the banks of the Des Moines River. Mary, who lives in a tent with her veteran husband and a lovely dog described the events leading up to the hanging. Although they are labeled as homeless camps, these are complex communities of survivors. Mary described how Elizabeth had visited their camp with a known unsavory male character. Food is shared with fellow survivors and that was the first and last time Mary saw Elizabeth. The night before she died, a loud truck was heard driving down the trail in the direction of the hanging tree. Mary and her husband chose to remain in the safety of their tent. Their dog scares away the wild animals that pose a threat. Nothing can protect against the persistent gunfire or an unidentified vehicle that invades their otherwise peaceful existence. Mary carries doubts about the circumstances of Elizabeth’s death. She also understands why members of these closely knit communities may simply give up, tired of living in fear.

The government plays a key role in disrupting their feeling of safety and security. Periodic signs are posted along the trail with maps outlining where and when they will infiltrate and take down these encampments or homes. It’s a Wac-A-Mole game. As one campsite is destroyed, another one pops up. Mary’s campsite is now gone. Although I look for her along the trail on my daily walk, the only thing left is the memory of the pain, fear and resignation that she carries.  

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“I’ve had it!”

Since I was a young boy growing up in west-central Iowa, I have been a fan of several sports. Baseball has always been my favorite, and football has been a close second. Not anymore. After watching the Minnesota Vikings vs. the Detroit Lions football game on NBC last Sunday night, I have made a choice to back away from football.

The officiating was the worst I’ve seen in a professional setting. At times, it was difficult to determine who was making the calls, the men in striped shirts, the replay assist, officials in New York, or bookmakers in Las Vegas.

An obvious penalty of “intentional grounding,” wherein the quarterback just throws the ball out of his hands without a targeted and eligible teammate in the vicinity, was not called because the officials claimed there was an eligible receiver in the area. Not only was a potential receiver not in the immediate area, but the football also bounced off a lineman – an ineligible receiver – and the ensuing penalty would have been “a five-yard penalty and loss of down.” Making the situation worse was the fact that this misdemeanor occurred while the Detroit quarterback was in his own end zone. Had the violation been called correctly, the outcome would have been different, and it would have given the Vikings a fair advantage when they needed it.

The bad calls didn’t end there. Detroit moved the ball close to a first down. The officials called the movement short of a first down and ruled the play was fourth down with inches to go. Somewhere out of nowhere came a ruling that the player with the ball did in fact gain enough yardage to be credited with a first down. The “out of nowhere” was a replay assist. Where in hell was the replay assist in the previous incident? 

In recent years, football broadcasters have had the enjoyment of utilizing retired officials who sit in the booth with them, or are tuned in to the broadcast remotely to comment on questionable calls. During the Vikings-Lions game the official was often critical of the calls, particularly calls of pass interference by the Lions’ defensive players. It was frustrating, especially since Detroit’s coach Don Campbell has in the past indicated that his team would commit violations because the officials couldn’t possibly call a penalty on every one of them.

Howard Cosell, the lawyer/journalist/broadcaster of Monday Night Football on ABC in the 1970s and early 80s and noteworthy fight announcer, said, “I’ve had it,” as he walked away from professional boxing. Cosell made me think about boxing and how brutal it can be. Why do we as a civilized society get excited about two individuals beating the blood out of each other? However, Cosell stopped announcing boxing matches (except those with which he was under contract to announce), because he felt the sport needed reform to instill stronger, stricter safety regulations, a rating system based in integrity and federal oversight.

It seems that football now needs federal oversight, given how gambling interests have permeated the sport. Sports commentators used to pick which team they thought would win the game. Now they pick using gambling jargon, for example point spreads. Advertising during pregame shows and during games heavily promote gambling. With so much gambling money attached to the outcome of these games, corruption should be expected. Maybe it will get so bad that the government will need to intervene, but probably not in my lifetime. 

So, for now, I will continue to cheer for my Chiefs going to yet another Super Bowl and am getting excited for baseball season to begin. Go Royals!

***

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Health System Problem? No, it’s an insurance problem

The Manhattan murder of UnitedHealthCare CEO Brian Thompson lit a fire under many Americans who are furious with their insurance carriers and the cost of premiums and denial of coverage.

Murder is not a respectful way to get a point across. But it has been effective. Much has been said about runaway insurance costs and respective denials for years. And has anyone listened until Luigi Mangione assassinated Thompson outside a hotel in New York?

Mangione wrote: “Peaceful protest is outright ignored, economic protest isn’t possible in the current system, so how long until we recognize that violence against those who lead us to such destruction is justified as self-defense?” No matter how much we can abhor violence, it may have worked this time.

“At a panel at the Reuters NEXT conference in New York earlier this month, executives from Pfizer and Amazon said health care companies are taking a step back to better understand patients’ experiences.” Health execs reckon with patient outrage after UnitedHealthcare killing. Dec 11, 2024 (Reuters). Would this lede into a story distributed by Reuters occur if it weren’t for a brazen act of violence toward a leader in the health insurance industry? Probably not.

In the same article, insurance leaders are justifying the high costs of premiums and consistent denials by claiming that fees from doctors and hospitals are increasing, and that it is their job to negotiate those fees “as well as costly prescription drugs and medical devices.” It’s like the out-of-control alcoholic who blames everyone else for his troubles. They’re not listening.

Insurance giants are now beginning to surround themselves with weaponized bodyguards to prevent another death at the hands of vigilante Luigi’s. What are they doing to protect the cube farm worker whose job it is to deny the claims? Does that employee need to watch every step she takes to make sure there’s not an upset insurance client with an AR-15 waiting for her in the parking lot, at the stop light, or pulling into her driveway at home?

Ingrid Jacques of USA Today wrote in a column that the “callous disregard for human life is alarming to witness.” She was writing about Thompson’s murder. But if the sentence were read without the intent, you could swear that line refers to the millions of people who have faced financial disaster and further health problems because an insurance company refused to pay up for something the patient thought was covered. Cutting off anesthesia halfway through surgery is about as “callous disregard for life” as I can think of. I can remember the day when someone didn’t want to report an accident or an injury because their “insurance premiums might go up.” Now, even if you make no claims, insurance premiums continue to rise at an alarming rate.

We have all laughed at the cartoons wherein a doctor is speaking to a patient who is obviously in excruciating pain, wrapped up in bandages, with IVs going into each arm, a counterweight holding up a leg, and hoses going into the mouth and nose. “The insurance company says you can go home now.” Today, it’s not a laughing matter. They’re still not listening.

“Our health system needs to be better … There’s a lot of things that should cause a lot of outrage,” Amazon Pharmacy Chief Medical Officer Vin Gupta said. Health system? It’s that alcoholic again, blaming the system, and not taking responsibility for our system of health insurance. They refuse to listen.

It’s time to cut down this behemoth beanstalk called health insurance and go to a system that has been successful in other First World countries; single payer healthcare. But it won’t happen because lawmakers are listening to the insurance industry demands and not their constituents’ heath care needs.

***

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Going to Kansas City

Occasionally, I will check local newspapers’ obituaries from around the part of Iowa where I grew up.

Unfortunately, I read an obituary in the Denison, Iowa, newspaper about a friend from the time we both worked at Farmland Foods in Denison. A little over a year ago, he sent me a Friend Request on Facebook. Immediately, I confirmed the “friending” process, or whatever it is called. He let me know that his wife had passed away recently. I knew Vicki from working with her, also. We chatted back and forth on “Messenger” for a time until we sort of lost track of each other.

During the course of watching Kansas City Royals games throughout the summer, I often thought of contacting Tom to see if we were the only two survivors of yearly trips to see the Royals. I never followed through.

Trying to recall who were the nine people in the van taking the trip each summer, I seemed to come up short one or two. Ray Roesner owned the van and drove each time. He was also the only one that didn’t partake of beer on the way down, the way back, or while we were there. John Henkelman sat in the other front seat. The van was a ten-seater, and one of the seats was reserved for beer coolers, so that left seven seats more for baseball fans: Tom Henkelman, John O’Brien, Lowell Schroeder, Roger Fineran, me, and two others that slip my memory now.

Other than me, all the others were at least two-hundred pounds, give or take a pound or twenty, and were close to six-feet tall, give or take an inch. Lowell may have tipped the scales at over 300, but he was an exception to the group, as was I. My weight was closer to one-hundred fifty.

We always had a block of tickets that favored the first-base side of the stadium, not more than five to ten rows up from the field. Great seats! None of us ever caught a foul ball, but we may have had our own beer vendor, who was never more than a shout away.

On one trip, in the middle of an inning, I had to use the restroom, and so did John H. We walked up the steps to the concourse together talking. When we reached the concourse, I headed into the restroom. John said, “where are you going?” “In here!” I shouted back. If you have ever been to Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City you might know that men’s and women’s restrooms look similar from the outside. Let me tell you, they do not look similar from the inside. Yes, I inadvertently walked directly into the women’s restroom.

“You’re in the wrong place!” A woman shouted at me. Duh! I could see that. Women were sitting on the open toilets, screaming! I turned and walked out as fast as I could go. I headed to the men’s room, and probably paid very close attention to the sign out front as I went in. John was in there, and he had to tell close to 50 men about what I did. Embarrassing! But that wasn’t the end of it. When we got back to our seats, John had to tell everyone within hearing distance. I couldn’t wait for the game to end.

Every trip we made to Kansas City to watch the Royals included a stop at a restaurant in St. Joseph on the way home. The restaurant was an all-you-can-eat place with over forty salads in its salad bar, numerous desserts, and all sorts of meats, from fried chicken, roast beef, barbequed ribs, chicken livers and gizzards, ham, and more. The restaurant eventually closed. After seeing those very large men come in and clean their plates (yes! Plates – not plate) as we did, is it any wonder.

One night, upon returning to Denison, Lowell asked if anyone wanted to join him for one more beer in the Play-mor bar. He had already figured that he drank thirty-two beers from the time we left that morning before 8:00 am. Most of us had quit drinking after eating in St. Joe. I saw Lowell walk into the bar alone.

As far as I know, I am the only remaining participant from the yearly trip to Kansas City in Ray’s ten-seat van from the 1970s and 1980s. Perhaps someday I will remember the other two adventurers who traveled to KC with us every year, but for now, I may have learned the lesson to reach out while a friend is alive. It’s better than ruing the lost opportunity after they’re gone.

***

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