Fifteen minutes. That's how long it takes for the police to arrive to the scene of a car accident. I know because I timed it after I called it in.
I was on a grassy patch of land out front of my townhouse walking Barry. I was watching him circle around the grass three times, his tail pointing down, ready to take a dump when I heard the crash.
I looked up to see an Acura Integra stopped across the middle of the busy road in front of the entrance to my complex, not more than 100 feet away from me. It was blocking traffic from both sides. A Nissan Sentra was stopped, crumpled in the turning lane facing north. From the Acura I heard a frustrated "Aaaargh!" from the twenty-something year old punk in the driver seat. Doors slowly opened from both cars, passengers getting out to check out the damage. Traffic was building up on both sides of the road, impatient drivers maneuvering past the frozen cars.
I ran back to my house to call 911. I calmly gave the operator the town, street, cross streets and the landmark of the Dunkin Donuts directly in front of the accident. I went back outside to wait.
By now, the cars were both moved off the road and into the parking lots of the Dunkin Donuts and the adjoining gas station. Traffic was moving normally and a small crowd was gathered by each of the cars. People were on cell phones and a kid with a dog, I believe a passenger of the Nissan, were walking around the parking lot. The nosy neighbor that I am, I watched with Barry across the street and I waited.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Where the hell were the cops? The town isn't very big and the accident was in front of a Dunkin Donuts for fuck's sake! I would imagine that the place would be swarming with flashing red and blue lights.
Fifteen minutes after I called it in, the police finally arrived. Satisfied with my civic duty fulfilled, I went back home to watch Law & Order reruns on tv.