I’ve had to call the police twice in the last four days, and in two different cities, no less.

The first time happened in the city across the bridge as I was on my way out of town after completing an interview.

I was pretty focused on the previous events, framing the story in my mind as I crept down the highway. I wasn’t speeding. Instead, I clipped along at a steady pace. As I came around the curve I noticed the tall man, holding what appeared to be a walking stick, on the edge of the highway. That action alone was nothing to concern the police with, but as I got closer I noticed two things – one, he had on war paint and two, his outfit consisted of a day-glow yellow traffic safety vest and blue pants.

Yes, I said, “war paint.”

It caused me pause as well.

Upon closer inspection, the man – who was quite tall – had liberally applied black grease paint on the lower half of his face. The upper half was decorated with three black swipes across the forehead.

In his hand, he had what some would call a rain stick – about five and a half foot of wood whittled into a staff. He was rocking on the balls of his feet with anticipation to cross the road. And you bet your sweet nickel I called someone to report that.

Wouldn’t you?

My second call to the cops came on Labor Day as I headed in to the office to do just that labor on that day.

As soon as I rounded the corner where Lindsey Bridge meets Stanley, I noticed his stagger up the sidewalk. That was first. The second thing I noticed was that his pants were hanging down about his thighs, and he was showing it all for God and the world to see – and it wasn’t pretty, either. The third thing I noticed was the armful of 40s, one of which was spewing froth toward heaven. All that beer, wasted – which one might think is a crime. It’s not, but public intoxication is, as I found out after reading the jail reports the next morning.

I called only because I didn’t want him to wander into the road and get run over by car.

You know, they do say things come in threes, and on Tuesday, I found out that was true. After all, how could you explain that pink-haired woman I saw navigating her way down the street?

Just think, if I hadn’t been paying attention, what all I would have missed?

In this line of business, it pays to not be oblivious of the war-paint, hardly any pants and pink-haired people out there.