…uh…what?
Sunday, December 28th, 2008“I am a cocksman, Trey, and I ain’t being discriminatory, but I cain’t fuck no one-legged woman…I cain’t do my moves.”
A local Lothario on why he wouldn’t sleep with a particular woman.
Archive for December, 2008
CopStories
Wednesday, December 24th, 2008“He was gonna kill me!”
The barfly said it with absolute earnest certainty.
So I turned to the homeless guy – who I’d seen two days earlier riding through town on his bike with two Yuppie kid carts tied with a bit of rope – and asked him, “You gonna kill this guy?”
The homeless man sort of shrugged; a non-verbal, “Unless I get a better offer.”
All right, I can deal with that.
See, the homeless guy, who told me he was going to Montana “to die,” had stopped on that death trip in town. And during his death trip stop in town, he stopped at a bar.
At said stop on said death trip, he got into a…hmmm…what to call it…disagreement, shall we say, with just about everyone in the bar.
Apparently, he said he’d take care of all 35+ people and then flashed what everyone said was a knife. It was a blade but not really a knife. And I’m pretty sure he would have hurt himself more than anyone else.
But hey, it’s aggravated assault, right? Wear the badge, deal with the bullshit. Arrest, prosecute, jail. Except this is the real world. Prosecuting attorney would have dropped the charges because he’s homeless and broke. And if the attorney hadn’t, the judge would…because the guy’s homeless and broke. If we arrested him, then he becomes a longer term problem for the city and the jail and besides, it would have interrupted his death trip to Montana.
So we worked out a deal with the bar patrons and the homeless man that I’d take him on down the road, get him closer to Montana. Yeah, it’s a horrible way to deal with problems, but what other real option did we have? The last place this guy needs to be is jail. And what about his twelve tons of crap? Where would we have held that? We have no place so what happens to that? And what if we did arrest him and he was released pending trial? Does he stay in town and if so, where? And how does he pay for it?
“I wanna get you closer to Montana,” I said.
“Get me the fuck outta Dodge and you and me are good,” was his response. (Not exactly; it’s the sentiment if not the verbiage)
So we head west on the highway. And on the way…he sings to me.
Terrible voice; a cracked tenor with nary a relationship with intervals between notes. You’ve not heard bad until you’ve heard hymns in a monotone. Between every verse, a joke or a bizarre question, including one about which position I preferred when it came to sex. Unsure of where that was headed, I said something along the lines of, “Well, the position matters less than the genitalia.”
He laughed. “Yeah, tha’ss pro’ly true, ain’t it?”
Uh…did he just call me a homophobe? Whatever.
About halfway there, he asks me, quite seriously, “Are you some sort of backwoods Christian?”
Now, I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never a Christian and certainly never backwoods.
When we get to the next county up the line, I started getting his stuff outta the truck I wrangled into helping us, and I noticed that down the street, at a convenience store, there was a local city police department car. Guy was probably getting some coffee or donuts or something.
But while I’m getting my guy’s stuff from the truck, the fucker’s talking and talking and going through my duty coat pockets.
“Hey. Watch the wandering hands.”
“Yes, sir…yes, sir.”
Then he got outta my squad with my jacket. Fucker’s trying to put it on.
“Hey, that’s my coat.”
He frowned, looked at it. “Oh, I thought it was mine.”
“Yeah, I can see how the sheriff’s office patch and the badge would throw you off.”
“I used to have one just like it.”
“When was that?”
“Ten or twelve years ago.”
“So you thought it just miraculously made an appearance?”
“Just made a mistake, dude, chill out.”
“Chill out, huh?”
“Yeah.” He nodded intently, as though I’d made a monumental mistake. “Yeah, take a pill. And can I have five bucks?”
“Payment for the jacket? You get the coat and the money? Helluva deal. How about this? How about you keep on keeping on for Montana and I won’t charge you with aggravated assault and throw you in jail? How’s that sound?”
He thought hard for a long minute, rubbing his chin and letting his eyes dart side to side. “Well, I like my deal better, but I recognize when I’m holding the weaker hand.”
I laughed, clapped him on the back, and told him good luck.
“I’m dying,” he said. “How much luck do you need with that?”
“Depends on the death, I guess.”
“True enough.”
So then I left.
And within ten minutes, my Sheriff’s Office got a call from the local PD. They wanted to know why we’d dumped that guy on them. I told dispatch to tell them we hadn’t dumped anyone, that we had merely assisted in a nationwide travel program and that they should do the same.
“Have them call the next county down and have that county call the next and so on and so on.”
Not the best solution, but the only one I could come up with. Sometimes, as a police officer, my choices are limited to bad or shitty.
But remember this: fucker got away with two of my bottles of water.
Hah. Distracted me with the coat and then slipped away with something of more immediate value. And got a free ride of thirty miles.
So who had the weaker hand?
…uh….what?
Sunday, December 14th, 2008“They were cold and they were gonna be thrown away! I was eating garbage!”
The garbage was left over french fries at a convenience store in a small town where damn near everyone in town hangs out. The clerk offered an entire pan to this kid and his buddy and while they didn’t eat them all, they ate 98% of them. He said this to me after I gave him crap about eating for free.
…uh…what?
Thursday, December 11th, 2008“Sodomize the eye socket of a kitten.”
That was written, definitely in my handwriting, on a scrap of paper I recently found amongst a pile of notes. The rest all made sense. The context of this one I can’t remember to save my life. Color me completely clueless about the kitten.
My Imagination Can’t Keep Up
Tuesday, December 9th, 2008You know, I grew up in Texas and thought I had a pretty good handle on political corruption. I mean, it was Texas, after all. It’s all bigger and better and badder in Texas.
Sadly, this morning, Texas is an also ran when it comes to political corruption. As baffled as I am that Americans would elect Shrub twice, I’m just as baffled that Illinosians would elect Rod Blagojevich governor twice.
This morning, the man was arrested – along with his chief of staff – for allegations of corruption so staggering it makes me want to fucking vomit.
Allegedly, this blow-dried piece of dog shit managed to get an $8,000,000 funding grant for Children’s Hospital in Chicago. He then told the hospital CEO that the CEO needed to cough up a campaign donation of $50,000 to insure the delivery of the eight mil. When the donation didn’t come, Rod is on tape – fucking on tape – asking how he could legally walk the 8 mil back.
Give me my dough or I’m cutting off the kids? I mean, I hate kids but come on, are you kidding me?
And, oh yeah, he was selling President-Elect Obama’s senate seat. Again, on tape asking people for money…allegedly.
Also thought about appointing himself, the U.S. Attorney alleged, so he’d have access to more money for when he got indicted.
And the biggest jaw-dropping moment? Blagojevich has been under investigation for years and beginning about 8 weeks ago, he started pushing harder. Why would someone who’s already being looked at try and drag in even more money? Because there is a new ethics bill in Illinois that takes effect January 1 that bars certain kinds of donations.
“Better get our share, boys, before them damn do-gooders fuck up our machine with their damn ethics bills and Pollyanna attitude.”
Now the question is: how hard are the right-wing whackos, the same ones who fervently believe Obama’s birth certificate is faked, going to try and tie President- Elect Obama to this nightmare?
Some days, I just want to buy an island in the tropics somewhere and hook my computer up to a generator. Then I could sit back, drink Mai Tais, and write all day long.
Ahhhhhh…..
Quick Observation
Friday, December 5th, 2008I’m not a brilliant fighter. I don’t understand so well the physics of this punch or that counterpunch or leverage on the ground or whatever else. But I do know this: if you wanna fight with the poh-poh, you shouldn’t be so drunk you’re falling over.
In other words, if you wanna throw down, you should be able to stand up.
CopStories: Murder Is Inevitable
Friday, December 5th, 2008Initially, the call was a domestic in progress.
Those are always scary. There is more potential for danger at domestics than anything else other than traffic stops. So there is always a bit of adrenaline. But this call – involving a couple with whom my department has dealt endlessly – amped up pretty damned quick.
“He’s got a gun,” she screamed. “He’s gonna shoot me. And my dog.”
I was first on the scene and parked about 50 or 60 yards away from their long, isolated driveway, killed the car and lights, and listened.
No gunshots, no screams. That’s either a good sign (things aren’t as bad as they could be) or a really bad sign (everyone is already dead).
Carefully, hand on my gun, I walked to the driveway and peered around some brush. She was in the yard, obviously drunk, chasing the black Lab. He stood in gray sweats in the yard with no shoes, socks, coat, or hat.
And with a gun behind his back.
After seeing me, she ran toward me. I ordered him to put the gun down or be shot. He eyed me, from about 75 yards away, and calmly walked into the house, without making an aggressive move toward me or her.
Taking the drunk wife with me, I backed away and waited for assistance. While waiting, I interviewed her. She admitted there had been no hitting. No pushing. No shoving. No scratching or spitting. In short, there had been no domestic. Just the threats of death.
Backed up, she said, by a handgun.
So we got all Rambo’ed up. The state troopers put on their special hats and gloves, their special vests with hundreds of extra rounds of ammo. They pulled out their AR-15s and walked like they were in-country circa 1968 Vietnam. Hand signals and whispers and don’t leave tracks in the snow and the rest.
Let’s understand: it was comforting, all that firepower. To know that, if he started shooting, he’d be answered back overwhelmingly…sort of a low-scale version of mutually-assured destruction. But it was also bizarre and surreal. I felt, honestly, like some Hollywood director was going to yell ‘Cut!’ at any second because this was nothing more than some B grade action flick, some straight to video badly written film meant to appeal to 14-year old boys.
While we approached, dispatch got the husband on the phone, which I liked. If he’s on the phone, at least one hand can’t be full of weapons. Plus his attention is on something other than me and my approach.
“He wants to know if you’re coming to the front door,” dispatch said.
“Uh…maybe DON’T tell him where we are?” I said to dispatch. “Seeing as how he’s in a house full of weapons?”
A deputy checked a window, saw him at the kitchen table, phone in hand and other hand empty on the table and so I made entry.
That’s it. After all the weapons and tactics and calls for assistance and grilling of the wife. After all the adrenaline and information gathering and agreed-upon approaches. After all the swallowing down of fear and the self-questioning (“Is this the day I kill someone?”).
After all that, it was as easy as opening the door.
I opened the door at an odd angle while another deputy watched him through a far window. I looked through the crack and saw both his hands. And so I went in.
We questioned him, searched the house, found a case worth of empty beer cans and all his long guns, lovingly laid out on a table. But no handguns, which he swore he didn’t have. And he agreed with her that there had been no domestic. He also denied the gun-threats.
So after all that, the 9,472 cops who showed up for a gun call left with no arrestees and no charges.
Except that everyone involved knew he had threatened her with the handgun we never found and that she had threatened him with us and that both were drunk and both were hitting each other. And trust me, every single cop there knew – and continues to know – we will be back again, probably this weekend.
And at some point, as inevitably as the sun will rise, one of them will be blinded enough by booze that they use one of those guns. At some point, it won’t be a domestic call, it’ll be a shots fired call.
Or a murder call.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Less Water Than Days Ago
Friday, December 5th, 2008And it’s getting even uglier for books. The last two days, for those of you don’t obsessively watch the trades like I do, have seen reorgs, layoffs at the biggest publishers, backpedaling by HMH on the whether or not they’re buying books (and regardless of what they say, they’re pretty much not).
Today’s news is a salary freeze at Penguin of anyone making more than $50,000 a year. But in a situation where people, including senior editors, are losing jobs, it’s hard for me to feel anything for employees simply not getting a raise. The Penguin CEO said he hopes that will be enough to get Penguin through the next couple of years.
Let me pause for a moment and mention how petty all this must seem to the man or woman putting radios in new Fords who’re watching their CEO drive to Washington in a hybrid (and for my money, symbolism doesn’t work quite as well when someone has to point it out to you…it’s like a forced apology) to beg for money so you can keep your job and buy shoes for the kids.
I realize whining about books and lack of books is petty. I realize this particular Bushian-driven recession is entirely too deep to cry about the arts, but the arts are what I do, they are what affect me so their slow death by strangulation is what I see.
But it is the way of the near term. If basic security is in question, luxuries are doomed. Keeping a job is a basic security. And as basic as books are, they are definitely a luxury right now.
So if you’re buying Christmas for someone, think about books. Think about Tom Picirrilli’s new one, or Sean Doolittle or Ed Gorman’s. Or Craig Johnson’s newest Walt Longmire tale which is fabulous. Johnson has really stretched and taken some literary chances that pay-off brilliantly.
So buy some books. Please?
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Remembrance and Regrets
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The Cancer Chronicles