Curt is Chicago native – but don’t hold that against him. After stops in Madison and California, he and his wife moved to Waukesha in 2004 to open their own downtown business.
Monday, January 8, 2007, 3:00 AM.
There I lay in bed, staring into the darkness of my room, wondering what I was going to write about for this week’s blog.
(Yep, that’s what keeps me up at night, folks- that and the giant bowl of mac and cheese I ate at 9:30PM).
I was just beginning to drift off into a deep sleep when I was startled into an immediate upright position by a loud “WHAM!”
From the sound it made, my initial thought was that someone hit a parked car on Main Street. I then went a step further and thought perhaps someone hit our building.
A slew of terrifying tragedies filled my mind as I raced for the kitchen window- otherwise know as the “OB” window (short for “observation”).
This window faces Main Street and has the added feature of the outer screen being removed, thus giving the user the means to hang themselves out of the window to see all the way down Main in both directions- a must when things are happening downtown.
As my eyes began to focus, I noticed a minivan sitting by the side of the road a few doors down; lights on and the front tire flat.
My wife had now joined me in the “OB” window and was asking for an update. She would have slept through the entire incident had I not been yelling, “Something happened- wake up, something happened”.
The minivan was beginning to roll ahead, heading west on Main; however, the flat tire was definitely impeding its progress.
On came the right turn signal, and the driver pulled into the parking lot of 426 West Main- out of our sight.
“Get dressed and go, get out there” –Monica’s exact words as she pulled her head in the window.
I darted back to the bedroom, threw on a shirt, put on some pants, couldn’t find socks, looked for slip on shoes, settled for lace up boots and was just about to dash out the door.
It was at this point I realized I would not make a good fireman.
There I stood in the living room, wearing Monica’s pants, no socks, hiking boots, my shirt was on backwards, and with no real plan of what exactly I was going outside to do.
I paused for a moment to think to myself- if, for some reason, I need to contact the police regarding this matter and they show up, and they see me standing on Main Street dressed like this, my next call will be from inside a padded room.
I took a deep breath, changed my pants, grabbed the phone, and headed out the door.
I sleuthed down Main towards the van’s resting spot. I figured I should do a quick “walk-by” and observe the situation before making a call to the police- I mean maybe it was just the paperboy and maybe he was trying to get close enough to my front porch to ensure the safe delivery of my Journal Sentinel and because of his dedication to the accurate delivery of my newspaper he didn’t see that the curb jets out there and accidentally hit it.
Or, maybe not.
My initial walk-by gave my no insight into the situation. I didn’t see anyone in the driver’s seat nor could I assess any of the damage.
I sauntered by and as soon as I was out of the van’s view, I raced down the block, around the corner, and up the river walk- seeking a perfect vantage point from which to see the van.
Upon my second observation, I still saw no driver, and as far as I could tell, the only real damage to the van was a blown tire and bent rim.
I continued around the building at 426 Main and began contemplating my next move.
I called home for advice, but Monica was still hanging out the “OB” window, wondering where I disappeared too. I then gazed across the street and considered a call to my neighbors (fellow Downtown Waukesha observers), but I hated to wake them because I knew they would never be able to get back to sleep.
It was at that point that I decided I was going to approach the van and look for the operator.
Two steps into this decision I saw someone sit up in the front seat! I sprang back into the shadows, fumbled for my phone, and called the police.
It was time to bring in the professionals.
I spoke with the dispatcher and gave her an update of the situation. Sixty seconds later, two officers rolled down Main and stopped in front of me.
I believe their initial thought was that I was the driver of the van. There I stood, in the dark, hair all messed up, glasses on crooked, no socks. I fit the bill of the average late-night loon ball.
I pointed to the van and assured them that I was the one who made the call. The officers approached the vehicle, asked the driver to step out and began routine questioning.
According to the police, the man had been drinking, but it was unclear yet as to exactly how much. I accompanied one officer back to spot where I thought the van had hit the curb while two other officers continued questioning the driver.
Although I had heard what sounded like an impact- actually it sounded a freight train fell from the sky, we couldn’t see any impact marks on the curb, just the skid mark from the curb to the area whe
