"Oh, hello" I reply. "Yes, that would be Mina".
I've been left in charge of Mina for the afternoon whilst Jalyss goes to work and Jim has a nice lie down. I am beginning to regret my benevolent stance on child care; I remain happy to do it up to the point where the police arrive at the door.
Looking after Mina is usually fairly easy. He wants to do two things when he gets home - drive his wheelchair or drive one of the cars. Half an hour before Jim had put him out in the truck, where he happily sits in the drivers seat and turns the steering wheel. With a block behind the front tyre and no way to reach the pedals he's arguably safer in the truck than he is in his wheelchair.
A few days before, on our last trip down the road with him in his new electric wheelchair, he ended up being carried back home after driving into traffic and biting me when I tried getting him out of the path of oncoming vehicles. I'm wary of allowing him out in his new wheelchair. I still have the puncture wounds in my arm from where he sank his teeth into it. Fortunately I had a tetanus shot before I moved to America. It's genuinely amazing that they foresaw the possibility of me being bitten by my brother in law. Thanks NHS!
Whereas we used to be able to at least keep up with him when he started playing chicken with an eighteen wheeler, Mina has just received two new wheelchairs to test out. Both are too big to stop, too heavy to hold and too fast to catch. So, he's basically in the wheelchair equivalent of Gypsy Danger, making preventing him from doing what he wants fairly difficult. This is especially hard when what he mainly seems to want to do is drive into things as fast and as often as possible.
So putting him in his wheelchair without containment procedures firmly in place is out. The neighbourhood kids playing across the road from us wouldn't stand a chance beneath the bone breaking wheels of the iron chariot. As I'm unemployed and sitting around the house all day, I've made friends with a few of the stay at home Moms. I don't want to jeopardize that by letting Mina crush their children into the lawn.
Instead then, we put Mina in the truck, and leave him to play at driving. Today, I had just bought him back in, and fixed him a drink.
A knock on the door, and through the screen, on the porch, a cop. His car is pulled up at the bottom of the drive. A passing neighbour has reported a child is in the truck, and the police have come to check it out.
As I'm currently here reliant purely on the patience of the Government, it's slightly worrying to deal with law enforcement at this point. I still haven't quite got over the idea that they may just rescind my stay, and send me home. Having the police appear on your doorstep is not what you ideally want under these circumstances.
"Are you in charge here?" he asks. Currently I am, but only by virtue of the fact that Jim is in bed, and I suspect would be even less pleased to see the police at his door than I am. I am, nominally in charge here, I suppose. For a house that's usually so full of people it suddenly seems the rest of the Zapfs have deserted me. Only Mina has dragged himself over to the door. He's heard the word truck and thinks the policeman is going to take him outside to continue driving, which is going to be a difficult moment for everyone.
I explain that I'm his brother in law and that whilst we do let him in the truck, he's unable to reach the pedal and drive. I'm asked who I am. His brother in law, I explain.
The policeman asks for my details. I AM ABOUT TO BE DEPORTED. I give them numbly, and then things take a downhill turn. "What's Mina's full name?" I have absolutely no idea. I know his first name, and his last name, but I am drawing a total blank. "What's your middle name" I ask Mina. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't answer me. He doesn't know his middle name either. The cop looks incredulous at our lack of knowledge.
"Are you in charge here?" he asks. Currently I am, but only by virtue of the fact that Jim is in bed, and I suspect would be even less pleased to see the police at his door than I am. I am, nominally in charge here, I suppose. For a house that's usually so full of people it suddenly seems the rest of the Zapfs have deserted me. Only Mina has dragged himself over to the door. He's heard the word truck and thinks the policeman is going to take him outside to continue driving, which is going to be a difficult moment for everyone.
I explain that I'm his brother in law and that whilst we do let him in the truck, he's unable to reach the pedal and drive. I'm asked who I am. His brother in law, I explain.
The policeman asks for my details. I AM ABOUT TO BE DEPORTED. I give them numbly, and then things take a downhill turn. "What's Mina's full name?" I have absolutely no idea. I know his first name, and his last name, but I am drawing a total blank. "What's your middle name" I ask Mina. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't answer me. He doesn't know his middle name either. The cop looks incredulous at our lack of knowledge.
Still, as it turns out me not knowing my brother in laws middle name isn't actually a crime. And isn't even, in fact, the most concerning lack of knowledge. He asks me for my dates of birth, I give it, and totally confused him because it's in the wrong order. Despite me clarifying that when I say 22/12 I mean the 22nd of December, he writes 22 for the month. I am beginning to get less worried about whether or not I'll get arrested. A policeman who doesn't know that there are only twelve months in the year; he's probably not inclined to launch a wider investigation.
Transferring dates between English and American is an ongoing battle. For some reason whilst I can adequately translate that when the month and day is out of order, I just need to switch them for it to make sense to me, this is beyond many Americans. Every time I tell them my date of birth, and lead with 22, their eyebrows descend into a frown and start to smoke as their brain flails for the extra processing capacity needed to overcome the complexity of reversing a pair of two digit numbers. It is apparently a national failing; confronted with calendars that don't work America gives in. It's fortunate that the wars on drugs and terrorism haven't been joined by a War on Unexpected Dates, because it would be a short and unsuccessful one.
Confronted with a round birthdate for his square hole the policeman gives in and leaves with some unspecific warnings about letting children drive into the garage door, and an earnest reminder that if I do let Mina drive, I will end up being killed by him. I find it unlikely that I will, but as a middle class white guy, I trust that this policeman is there to do good, thank him and watch him leave.
As he pulls away, Mina tug on my trouser leg. He wants to go outside and drive. I close the door and decide that maybe we'll put him in his wheelchair instead.
Transferring dates between English and American is an ongoing battle. For some reason whilst I can adequately translate that when the month and day is out of order, I just need to switch them for it to make sense to me, this is beyond many Americans. Every time I tell them my date of birth, and lead with 22, their eyebrows descend into a frown and start to smoke as their brain flails for the extra processing capacity needed to overcome the complexity of reversing a pair of two digit numbers. It is apparently a national failing; confronted with calendars that don't work America gives in. It's fortunate that the wars on drugs and terrorism haven't been joined by a War on Unexpected Dates, because it would be a short and unsuccessful one.
Confronted with a round birthdate for his square hole the policeman gives in and leaves with some unspecific warnings about letting children drive into the garage door, and an earnest reminder that if I do let Mina drive, I will end up being killed by him. I find it unlikely that I will, but as a middle class white guy, I trust that this policeman is there to do good, thank him and watch him leave.
As he pulls away, Mina tug on my trouser leg. He wants to go outside and drive. I close the door and decide that maybe we'll put him in his wheelchair instead.
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