Taft Fact #3

In 2005, I spent a few excruciating months working for a rural Sheriff’s Office in eastern NC.  Shortly after I began, I learned that sheriffs’ offices in North Carolina are regulated by a much different set of rules than municipal agencies.  Because sheriffs are elected officials, the requirements for becoming a sheriff or working as a deputy are much more lenient than for police officers.  For example, the sheriff for whom I worked did not complete his high school education, which was not a prerequisite for taking office during his first term. 

Fortunately, the time I spent working for that sheriff was ultimately a blessing.  I would not fully appreciate my current situation had I not experienced the alternative.  Working for an unprofessional manager with a quick temper and a slow wit makes one appreciative of positive support and trusting management.

The sheriff’s lack of formal education and abhorrent management style made for some very interesting situations. One of the worst, which now ranks among my favorite law enforcement stories, happened about two months after I was sworn in.  The sheriff received a letter from the North Carolina Sheriffs’ Standards Committee informing him that my law enforcement credentials were revoked.  According to the notice, the committee discovered that I had an undisclosed arrest record.

As a politician, the sheriff was always aware of his reputation and the potential for scandals like this to affect his political career.  He sent a supervisor to my apartment to wake me up and escort me to the sheriff’s office (I worked the previous night shift).  When I arrived at the sheriff’s office, the following conversation ensued:

Taft:  Sheriff, you called for me?

Sheriff:  Shut up!  Sit down!  Look, what the hell’s wrong wit you, son?  I wish you’da told me you was a liar when I give you a job.  ‘Least then it woulda’ saved me the trouble of firin’ ya now.

(This is probably a good time to mention that the sheriff had a strong eastern NC accent, began most of his sentences with “Look”, and had a penchant for cursing at officers…but I’ll leave that part out.)

Taft:  I don’t understand.

Sheriff:  Shut up!  Look, you know what ya’ did.  You lied on ya’ personal hist’ry foam (read: form).

Taft:  No sir, I didn’t.

Sheriff:  Shut up!  Quit lyin’!  You know what ‘ya done.  Just shut up….

(pause)

Sheriff:  Well?  Explain ya’ seff.

Taft:  Sheriff, I still don’t understand what’s going on.

Sheriff:  Shut up!  The sheriff committee up in Raleigh says you done lied.  You been arrested and you lied about it.  You’s just a sorry liar.

(As soon as he mentioned an arrest record, I understood what was going on.  I admit, a better man would have stopped the whole ordeal right here...but I didn't) 

Taft:  Sheriff, you’re wrong.

Sheriff:  Shut up!  You just lyin’ again.

Taft:  Sheriff, what details did they give you about the arrest?

Sheriff:  It says right here William T. Love was arrested in Cabarrus County for drunk and disorderly.  Why didn’t you tell me you was a no good drunk?  You drunks is all liars, so I guess it makes sense.

Taft:  Sheriff, what’s the date of arrest?

Sheriff:  It says you was arrested in nineteen and eighty eight.

Taft:  Sir, that was 17 years ago.

Sheriff:  I don’t care if it was a hundred n’ seventeen years ago.  You was arrested and you’s a liar makin’ me look bad to my constichensy.

Taft:  Sheriff, I was born in 1984.

Sheriff:  Shut up!  I don’t give a lick about…. You was fo’ years old.

(The sheriff didn’t miss a beat.  He leaned over so that he could see into the next office and address his secretary, Evelyn)

Sheriff:  Evelyn, what the hell?  How’d you miss this?

Sheriff:  Taft, you a good boy.  Get on back to bed, you need some rest to get back to all ‘at good work you been doin.

Until next time.

-Taft

Taft Fact #2

As many of you know, I attended boarding school.  I had my share of embarrassing moments during high school, but the single most humiliating experience of my life (so far) unfolded while I was touring Christ School in Asheville, NC.

I was 13 years old, in the eighth grade, and a freaked out by all the super-cool high school kids that I met while touring schools (if I only knew then what I know now).  My parents and I had just finished an interview with the dean of students and we were hurrying to the dining hall because we were late for lunch.

As we reached the top of the steps leading down to the dining hall, we saw all of the students stand up for the prayer.  I knew that it would be totally uncool if I didn’t get in there before the meal started.  I decided to pick up the pace.

This is where I should explain that the person who designed Christ School must have had an affinity (maybe fetish) for stairs.  The stairway from the main walkway down to the dining hall consisted of approximately 492 individual steps. After one or two steps, I lost my footing.  I’m not talking about getting a bit wobbly and grabbing the railing.  I committed to a Superman-style stair-dive.  There have been runaway trains with less momentum than I had at this point.

My mom later told me that it seemed like I fell for ten minutes.  I wasn’t lucky enough to lodge an arm or a leg in the railing that ran down the center of the stairway.  After all, a broken leg would have been much better than what happened.  I tripped, flipped, and somersaulted all the way down to the bottom.  I was moving so fast by the time I hit the bottom that I slid a solid three or four feet beyond the spot where I splattered onto the concrete.

When I finally came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, I looked up and realized that I was sprawled out in front of a giant glass façade.  The windows were about ten feet in front of me.  Every single Christ School student was staring at me, horrified at first.  Once they realized that I was going to live, they began to clap.  I received a standing ovation as my dad ran down the steps to make sure I was OK.


As he picked me up off the ground, my dad leaned over and said, “well….I think we can cross this place off the list.”

Until next time.

-Taft

The Return of Taft Facts

Several years ago, when I attended school at ECU, I wrote a regular post for a website related to the school.  I called the posts “Taft Facts.”  Each Taft Fact was a true story from my life.  Most were stories of dumb things I did as a kid.  To my surprise, people started to read Taft Facts.  Before long, I had a modest following that consisted of friends and strangers.

This is a perfect time to bring them back.

I have two younger sisters, Claire and Zoe.  They are 2 and 11 years younger than me, respectively.  As you might imagine, Claire and I had a tendency to gang up on Zoe when she was young.  Though we both got along with Zoe well, the temptation to mess with her occasionally led us to do some mean things.

(Left to Right: Me, Zoe, Claire)

One morning, when Zoe was about 4 years old, she was running around the living room and making it impossible for Claire and me to watch TV.  This was out of character for Zoe, so we were unaccustomed to such distractions.  We decided to channel her energy.

I called Zoe over to us and showed her a nickel.  I asked her if she wanted to play a game and have a chance to win said nickel.  Bear in mind, it was a shiny nickel, which is the only indicator of value to a four year old.  Needless to say, she was SUPER excited about the possibility.

I explained to Zoe that the nickel game revolved around an ancient family secret.  I told her that she was not technically old enough to play, but that I would allow her the opportunity to win the nickel if she promised not to tell mom and Dad.  She promised.

I told Zoe that when our great-great-great-great grandfather built our house back in 1835(total BS, it was 25 years old at most), he installed a magical strawberry-flavored knob somewhere in the kitchen.  The object of the game was to find the strawberry-flavored knob as quickly as possible.  If she found it in time, she won the nickel.

At this point, I should let you know that the kitchen in our old house had TONS of knobs.  It had double the number of normal kitchen knobs because there were a lot of false-front drawers.  There were at least 60 knobs just waiting to be licked.

Zoe was a pretty serious kid, so she took the game seriously.  She took my advice and began in the corner of the room.  She worked low-to-high and left-to-right.  Once she was off to the races, Claire and I returned to our TV show and enjoyed the quiet.

A few minutes later, to our immense surprise, Zoe ran into the living room and announced that she found the magic strawberry knob.  We were dumbfounded, because it was apparent that she really thought that she found a knob that magically tastes like strawberries.  I told her to show me which one, and she pointed out a cabinet knob that hung over the sink.  I made my best disappointed face and told her that she was wrong.  I suggested that she start over in the corner and put more effort into the game.  The licking continued, and we returned to the living room.

A few minutes after Zoe started round 2, Claire and I heard our Dad coming down the stairs.  We jumped up and ran into the kitchen to stop her, but it was too late.  When we got to the kitchen, Dad was staring at zoe, who was playing tonsil-hockey with the sliver wear drawer knob.

Dad asked Zoe what the hell she was doing.  She remembered that, according to the rules, she couldn’t tell him if she wanted to win the nickel.  She stood up and looked at us.  After a few excruciating seconds, I told her that it was OK, she could tell Dad what she was doing.  Zoe explained to Dad that she was searching for the secret family magical strawberry knob.  Without missing a beat, Dad said, “Zoe, they lied to you.  I can’t believe they would do that.  It’s not a magic knob….it’s a magic floor tile.”

Luckily for Zoe, he stopped her before she finished the first tile.

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Until next time.

-Taft