During my first few years as a female trooper (those young, ferocious years when you think you can do anything and want to prove yourself), I’m working in Bridgeport, Michigan. There is a popular landmark there known as the Zilwaukee Bridge, which extends over the Saginaw River. The bridge is very tall.
The “Z”, as we call it, was undergoing construction. A large heavy sign has blown onto the roadway. Vehicles slow down, dodge the sign, and then speed up. I am certain it will cause an accident.
I exit my car and refuse to look down because I am afraid of heights. Although I’m only five feet, three inches tall, I decide I can move this eight-foot sign—by myself. The sign is cockeyed and lies slanted over a concrete median. Even though I can lift it only partially, and know it is really too heavy, I am determined to move it myself. I don’t want to ask any male troopers for backup. I don’t want to be judged a “helpless female.” (I realize now how silly I was—a male trooper would certainly have called for assistance.)
Some cars have stopped before the sign, and others are going around it. I try valiantly to stand up the sign—not that I know what I’m going to do with it next.
I actually have the sign almost erect when suddenly a huge gust of wind sweeps across the bridge! I totally lose control of the sign. It blows and topples backwards, way too heavy for me to stop. I am sent spiraling on my ass!
Then the sign flounders and bangs on top of me and hits me square on the forehead! I’m not hurt, but I lie there motionless, because I’m too embarrassed to get up. I’m so embarrassed; I decide to stay underneath the sign! I pray, “Oh, please. Oh, please. Oh, please, God. Don’t send anyone over to help me. Just let me lie here. I’d rather DIE than be helped!” I’m thinking, Okay, nobody saw me. It’s okay, nobody saw me. I’ll just hide here for a little while longer and . . .
But I soon hear the voices of public citizens—the battalion has arrived!
“Are you okay, Trooper? Are you okay? Here, let us get this sign off you!”
Here I am, a Michigan State Police trooper in fancy dress uniform with a noggin on my forehead and the biggest bruised ego you’d ever want to see. As I find my way, clumsily, from underneath the sign, I struggle to my feet. I am a bit confused and actually see a few stars. I can feel a huge round lump on my head the size of a golf ball.
“Oh, I’m fine. Really, I am,” I say as I stumble (with citizen support no less) to my vehicle.
“Are you sure, Trooper? Are you sure?”
I nod in reply, totally embarrassed, as other citizens trail behind me like I’m the Pied Piper. To make matters worse, they seat me in my car and they go do MY JOB! They move the sign to its final resting place.
My humiliation is not yet over. My partner, Jerry, hears about the incident (partners are ruthless) and he contacts the media. He tells the media everything that happened! Oh, yeah—he makes the story good and juicy, too, as detailed as possible. He finishes by saying, “. . . and if it wasn’t for those brave Michigan citizens, Trooper Bentley might still be under that sign today. Those citizens should be very proud of a job well done!” You have to be around the media to know how much they really dig this type of “human interest” story.
Later that night, I turn on the TV. There they all are . . . reporters at the Zilwaukee Bridge, focusing their cameras on the cockamamie sign! I am at home by myself, listening, growing more and more mortified, as my face gets hotter and hotter. Then I see my face on TV—a close-up no less! The reporter finishes his story, stating “. . . and thank goodness Trooper Bentley only suffered a minor abrasion to the forehead and was able to work the rest of her shift. Who knows what could have happened if concerned citizens hadn’t helped her along.”