When I got to work this morning, I noticed one of Highland Park’s finest had pulled over a car directly in front of our building. The name of said officer? Tim Lednicky. How do I know? If one took a gander at my driving record, one might be inclined to guess that he had pinched me a time or two for some sort of infraction. (I’m partial to running stop lights.)
But, no, not this time. I know Tim because I grew up across the street from him in West, Texas. He was there when I ran into a mailbox face first on my new bike, when I nearly impaled myself on a fence in a skateboard accident, and many times during high school that no one really needs to dredge up again. It’s kind of a statistical oddity that we should both end up here in Highland Park, since there were only 82 people in our graduating class.