I’m a big fan of the guardians for mindset, which is more about protecting and less about dominating. The police force is considered a part of the community; they’re not like an adversary or a mean friend, waiting to pounce the moment someone screws up, ahem, West Lafayette PD, circa 1991. I see a guardian in action as Officer Driver rolls down his window to talk to a group of kids heading our way. They look to be late teens, having crawled directly out of a Vineyard Vines catalog. Two guys are walking and there’s a girl riding one of them piggyback.
Piggyback!
Piggyback is the universal girl-sign for “I just drank five Lime-a-Ritas and I weigh nooooothing!”
[Trust me, I know this.]
I assumed they’d scatter as soon as they saw the car, but instead they approach us. Wait, what? They’re approaching us?
“Hey!” says the one with the [tipsy?] girl on his back. “Is Officer Wiseass in there?”
Hold up, these kids know the officers? And they’re excited to see them? What kind of Bizzaro world is this? How is their first instinct all, “Yay, police!”
Is Eazy-E rolling over in his grave right now?
We chat with them and the kids introduce themselves, each one with a name preppier than the one before, I’m talking the full Lovey and Thurston Howell here. No one shows signs of having been drinking (save for being piggyback, which again, not probable cause) and no one has booze fumes wafting off them. We chat a few minutes more we part.
I’m struck by the level of respect and professionalism Driver displays with each kid. Of course, the cynical part of me – the portion that knows only the warrior trope – wonders if they’d had been treated differently had their names not all been some variation of Shackleford Hampton, IV.
[This is also a pseudonym, and it’s still not as preppy as the kid’s real name. What’s funny is when I tell this story to my new girlfriends from cop class, they’re both like, “Wait, which Shackleford did you meet?” Because Shacklefords exist. I just... wow.]
As we head back up the bluff, Driver points out the big rocks, saying that we have a huge wild mink population at the beach. He knows this because he was bitten trying to move one he thought had died. Surprise! Not dead. While the mink was very much alive when he happened upon it, Animal Control did have to put it down to test for rabies
“Did you get to skin it and keep its pelt?” I ask.
“No.”
“They wouldn’t let you?”
Side-eye. “I didn’t ask. Why would I want a dead mink?”
“Because he bit you! You could make a garment out of it, all, ‘Huzzah, I am wearing the hide of my enemy!’”
Welcome back to the Jen Lancaster Show!
He blinks a couple of times and then says, “Yeah, let’s head west.”
We cruise by Jewel again. The rusty old car is still idling in the parking lot. We thought maybe someone was being picked up at work when we’d previously passed, so we made a mental note and drove on. At this point, the car’s been running for at least an hour and the store’s closed; the situation is officially suspicious.
We run the plates and get back some questionable information. Latin King tats have been documented in relation to this particular license plate, which gives me license to panic. I mean, I have a (half-removed) sorority tattoo which I’d have never gotten if I weren’t initiated. A tattoo isn’t like just buying a jersey of a team you like; it’s a commitment, a pledge of loyalty, a permanent mark of membership.
I wait in the car as Driver exits. He leaves the window down so that I can listen. As he approaches the vehicle, every single damn gunshot video plays again in my head. Is he in danger? Is some shit about to go down? Do I need to grab the radio? Adrenaline courses through my veins. Despite being a good five miles from home, I’m sure I could run all the way there. I unbuckle my safety belt in case I’ve gotta fly.
I watch as he taps on the passenger window with his flashlight and a face appears. In my head, I’m screaming, “Save yourseeeellllllllf,” as I imagine myself bolting away from the scene. I grasp the door’s handle, ready to throw it open at any second and disappear like a vapor trail.
Driver is both alert and nonchalant as he speaks with the Hispanic man inside the vehicle.
What’s your 20, officer?! (Also, what does, “What’s your 20?” mean?)
The passenger exits the car with something in his hand. Look out, it’s a weapon, we’re all gonna dieeeeeee! No, wait. It’s a bottle. The passenger dumps the contents in the bushes and then takes back his driver’s license. Then he shakes hands with Officer Driver and begins to walk away.
What in the actual fuck?
Upon return, Driver explains that the guy was passed out in the running car, waiting for his friend. The passenger did have an open container of alcohol (which was dumped) and technically, this could be considered drunk driving, although he’d never be convicted. The guy’s a caretaker on one of the estates we’ve seen tonight, so Driver has him walk home, having declined a ride from us.
“The fresh air will wake him up,” Driver declares.
Now I feel like a massive jerk for worrying that the non-Shacklefords in town might be treated differently. Certainly, I can’t speak for every town and every officer, given the incidents we see reported every day. But right now? There’s only one asshole near this car and she’s wearing a rooster shirt.
“Were you scared when you approached that guy?” I ask.
“Nope, just business as usual,” he says as he documents the incident for his shift report.
“You weren’t afraid at all?”
I’m glad he wasn’t scared because I was frightened enough for the both of us. I have to wonder, though - how did he not quake in his boots, even a little? Has he not seen Officer Cruise’s videos?
“I don’t have the luxury of being afraid,” he replies. “Even if I were, I couldn’t show it. I’ve gotta be confident. There’s no other option. The bad guys out there can smell panic on you. You learn pretty fast to get past the fear and do your job or you’ll never make it.”
“Help me understand,” I implore. “How do you get past the fear? How is your first response not to run or freeze? Granted, you’re more likely to get bitten by a weasel up here than to be shot by one, but still. Where do you find the confidence? Are you born with it?”
He explains, “I’m confident because I’m prepared. Preparation is a conscious, ongoing choice. For example, I’ve taken classes on how to maneuver vehicles at high speeds and under stress. I work out hard to be in my best shape if a situation turns physical. I study body language so I can anticipate actions and react accordingly. I practice on the range in case I ever need to discharge my weapon. I learn the ins and outs of the law to make sure I’m respecting everyone’s rights while building a solid case for arrest. And our commanders are always running us through training drills so that nothing ever catches us off-guard.”
“The key is to eliminate any element of surprise?”
“Right, even though it’s impossible to envision every scenario. Fear stems from the worrying about the unknown. We do our best to eliminate the unknown.”
Makes sense to me, more and more, every day.
Driver’s shift is over and he brings me back to the station. I have some a couple of minutes before I leave on the midnight shift. As much as I enjoyed being in the car, I know I didn’t make a good impression. That bothers me. I wasn’t trying to be obnoxious, even though that was the result.
Fletch is right, I can go too Jen Lancaster Show! in situations like this. Humor’s my side-arm, it’s the go-to weapon in my arsenal. If being sarcastic or quick is the only hammer I have, then ostensibly, everything looks like a nail. And, while wit can be effective, it’s not everything. I perpetually joke about or mock that which makes me anxious or uncomfortable, which can be off-putting. I often sound glib and insensitive when, really, I’m just trying to desensitize myself.
If I’d just said to Driver, “This experience is
scary for me,” maybe we’d have gotten off on better footing. I suspect that’s why I opted for this ridiculous rooster top tonight; wearing an irreverent shirt is the only modicum of power I felt I’d have in this situation, my only agency over the great and frightening unknown. To extrapolate this point, it’s like my sassy mouth is the virtual rooster shirt I wear every day of my whole damn life.
I meet Officer Short Time [pseudonym] for my midnight shift. He has less than a year to go before retirement. I decide to approach our encounter entirely differently.
I’m going to be real, for better or worse, and not try to charm or entertain him. I’m just going to make a genuine connection.
I’m back in class a week later, having missed a session because of meetings in New York. When Officer Trainer asks me about my ride-along, I offer effusive praise for the experience. I don’t mention that I made an ass out of myself with Driver, not do I explain my plan to dedicate my YA novel to Officer Time. He and I spoke nonstop for hours and over the course of our conversation, I learned how he’d been on the scene for six different train suicides.
I can’t even imagine.
I don’t know how he got up and did his job the next day, but he did and he has, for almost thirty-five years. In my book [literally,] that merits recognition.
During a break, my classmate Kathy tells me she rode with Officer Driver a couple of days ago. I like Kathy. She comes across as calm and rational and the questions she asks our instructors are always meaningful and thought-provoking.
[The last time I raised my hand, I was curious about where everyone pees and buys coffee on the midnight shift, as the gas stations in town close by 10:00 p.m. After that, I kept quiet.]
Kathy asks me, “Were you nervous when the officer showed you how to unlock the rifle? I was worried about the idea of providing cover, no matter how unlikely the scenario. Then I figured, if he needed me, I’d find a way to be brave.”
Fletch spins around in his seat, his gaze flinty, accusatory. “You didn’t tell me about the rifle.” He thinks I’ve been holding out on him, keeping the most key detail to myself. He’d waited up for me the night of my ride-along, so excited to hear every detail. He was like my giddy sorority sister, dying to dish about my date with the big man on campus.
“That’s because he didn’t show me how to unlock it,” I say. “Wasn’t an option. No gun, no Taser, not even any pepper spray. He said, ‘This is how you work the radio if we’re in trouble.’ That was it.”
“So he was all, ‘Here’s a whistle. Maybe you could blow on it if a war breaks out,’” Fletch says, repeating a line from a show we saw years ago, even though neither one of us can recall its genesis anymore.
“Exactly,” I reply. “I suspect throwing a box of donuts at him and demanding he find me charming five seconds after meeting him might have tipped him off to my level of competence.”
Fletch nods. “I could see how he’d draw conclusion.”
He and Kathy then launch into a conversation about the pros and cons of the tactical assault rifle while I stew in my seat, finally realizing the extent of the bad impression I surely left.
Stupid fucking rooster shirt.
I do a second ride along with Office Driver, this time with the Jen Lancaster Show! on hiatus. I’m not in costume and I don’t thrust a box of carbs at him. I’m just me, dialed down and this is key. He seems a lot less guarded around me now because I think my energy before made him nervous. He even shows me how to unlock the rifle.
Progress.
As we patrol, he tells me the very best defense is a nosy neighbor.
[I knew it!]
Our night is very quiet. Because of this class, I’ve become a lot less fearful of what’s out here in the dark, so much so that I feel asleep before Fletch even called to check in last time he was out of town.
I’m far more familiar with what dangers might lurk in the night. Mostly, it’s raccoons, a few foxes, and drunk drivers coming back from the bars in Highland Park. The officers can’t do anything about my Stranger Things-based concerns, but I’m not nearly as freaked out about random crime anymore.
While it never hurts to be alert, there’s such a thing as being paranoid for no good reason. We have other dangers here in Lake Forest, and if I can prevent any of them from harming teens through my YA work, then I feel like I’m doing a good thing.
Driver’s shift is almost over. We’re about to get gas out at the Municipal building and he’ll take me back to the station for the midnight shift. Then we get a dispatch about two drunk fourteen year females causing a disturbance in a limousine.
Again. Two drunk juveniles. Limousine. Disturbance.
I do not say, “Is it my birthday?” out loud. That does not mean I don’t think it.
I am still me, after all.
Driver slides on a pair of protective gloves as he makes his way to the scene. “Drunk juveniles are bad. Drunk juvenile females are the worst.”
When we pull up, we see vomit all over the side of the car, having come from the window of the back seat. The chauffeur is outside, pacing, pissed. Driver tells me he’ll leave his window open so I can hear what’s happening. On the last ride along, I suspect he wouldn’t have been so accommodating.
He and another officer assess the scene, talking to the chauffeur and each of the girls. There are two of them. One of them looks scared shitless and the other, I’m assuming she’s the ringleader, is standing with her arms crossed, her expression somewhere between defiant and bored.
This kid is fourteen, shithoused, coming home from a party in a limo, getting the business from not one, but two sworn officers of the law, and she’s self-possessed enough to be annoyed, all, “Tick-tock, time is money, can we wrap this up already?”
I’m guessing if someone doesn’t step in, if someone doesn’t aggressively parent her, like, yesterday, she’s probably going to see some trouble in her life. I’m afraid for her future and for her family, yet at this moment, I think, “I will never in my life be as cool a customer as this girl is right here.”
Parents are called and instructed to pick up their wayward offspring at the station, so we take one of the juveniles (not the badass) and the other officer takes the other. Once the kid’s all belted in, Driver tells her, “I’m going to drive very slowly and carefully. The station is less than a mile from here. However, if at any point, you don’t feel well, tell me to stop immediately and I will.”
I want to ask this kid everything but I say nothing.
When we’re less than thirty feet from the door, the girl begs us to stop. She bolts out and gets sick. We can see that the limo is already parked in front of the station and someone had barfed out of the window on the opposite side, too. Now it occurs to me it wasn’t the juveniles having a fit in the limo, it was the guy driving. I can’t fault him for being mad. Poor guy did not sign up for this.
The problem is, he doesn’t speak their language [metaphorically] so he can’t see past the spoiled rich kids trashing his car. I heard one of the moms on speaker phone when the police called her. She was furious, not that her fourteen-year-old-child had been caught drinking, but that she had to drive to the station. She didn’t understand why the police couldn’t just come to her. She was all, “So, I called a limo for nothing?” Maybe the driver doesn’t have any experience living in a world like this, where convenience is more important than children.
As for the girls, they have no clue that carting them around could be this guy’s second job, or third, and that their shenanigans are costing him a night’s wages, that this run could have been the difference between him making rent this month or not.
No one wins in this scenario.
After the girl has finished, Officer Driver asks if she’s going to be okay and her response both warms and breaks my contemptuous black heart.
“I’m not sure officer, this is my first time consuming alcohol.”
Because it would be in bad form to hug this young stranger, instead, I fish a sti
ll-sealed bottle of water out of my purse and hand it to her. I won’t have anything to drink later, but I think she needs it more than I will.
With that, I leave them and go inside to meet my partner for the next shift. One of the guys on midnights is Officer Wiseass, who came to my house post-Whole30. He remembers me. Over the course of this class, I’ve met every cop who’s been to my place because of my butterfingers.
At least we’ve finally changed the code.
Fletch is waiting up for me again when I get home. I tell him all about my night, detailing every call. As it’s almost 4:00 a.m., I’m about to drop.
“Wait, I almost forgot what I told everyone on the midnight shift,” I say. “I walk into the squad room and it’s all the youngest people on the force. Every single one of them is adorable. Half my age, and so darling. I told them, ‘If the Police Foundation doesn’t do a fundraising calendar with you guys, you are leaving money on the table.’”
Fletch face-palms. “You didn’t.”
“Of course I did. They work out hard, they eat healthy, they take good care of themselves! Firemen do this kind of thing all the time. The calendar would sell so well.”
I say this because I genuinely care about these officers now. The respect they give begets respect. I want to the Police Foundation to raise as much money as possible to keep these brave men and women safe. Personally, I’m going to be on tenterhooks between now and when Officer Short Time gets to retire down to Florida. He has so many plans between fishing and grandkids and learning to salsa dance with his wife! And if calendar sales provide one more bit of gear that will protect not just the officers, but everyone they encounter, then I think it’s our obligation to help make this happen.
As I’m exhausted as it’s about five hours past my bedtime, I’m not properly articulating this thought.
I try to clarify. “Not just the men, the female officers, too. They hide their light behind those dowdy uniforms! They want a chance to be pretty, too. Every one of them is attractive. I’d swipe right on any of them. Or left. Which is it?”
Stories I'd Tell in Bars Page 22