Officer Alex offers up a tale of handcuffs and a singular dilemma
He came into the sally port of the jail with an air of confusion, something well-earned since he hadn’t been inside there in longer than anyone—including himself—could remember.
“Big Al” had been a cop longer than most people in the intake room had been alive so his lack of performance gave him some leeway, but then there was the fact that he was also the largest man anyone there had ever seen. He actually had to tilt his head to avoid hitting the top of the steel doorframe, and folks: Jail intake doors are not small.
Al normally had a jovial grin, but at the moment, it was painted on at best, his eyes cautiously looking left and right as he led his unfortunate customer inside the light blue concrete block walls adorned with stainless steel accent seating, the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents causing him to squint a little at the same time.
He came to a sudden halt when he saw an officer with a laptop computer out typing in his arrest narrative, and he looked back at his car just as the steel doors came to a steady electric halt behind him. He shrugged.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys, his enormous fingers manipulating the ring to acquire the tiniest of keys present: His handcuff key. (Imagine trying to use two uncooked bratwurst sausages to pick up a safety pin, and you can better join me here.)
As in most things he took his time, raising his customers cuffs up behind his back in order to find his target, and with a strange innocence he ignored the amount of pain this caused the young man who like everyone else present had the sense to keep his mouth shut.
Stab after stab, he worked to get the key in place until finally (if not statistically) the key found its home and Al smiled as he slowly turned it to the right, until he heard a small “tink” sound.
The key had broken. Al stopped smiling.
He withdrew the key and held it up before his eyes, the silver shaft now devoid of the one metal tab that used to live atop it. We exchanged nervous glances in the room, and Al’s client began to bite his quivering lower lip.
To this point no one had spoken a word so I put on a fake smile and broke the silence. “Hey Al! Great to see you! Hey that happened to me just the other day, let me give you a hand.” (I was totally comfortable with the lie.)
I approached and brought out my own cuff key, one made larger so that human hands could actually utilize it and lowered his customers wrists bringing him both immediate physical and psychological relief. He mouthed the words “thank you” with silent sincerity.
I went to work on the cuffs, and was about to flesh out the story of my lie when I too heard a “tink,” and withdrew my own freshly broken cuff key. What the hell?
Al Johnson hadn’t used his handcuffs—I mean so much as taken them out of their carrier—in SO long, they had literally rusted shut. All the rain and sweat and humidity had finally done their work on the inner working of the stainless steel, and here we were.
I actually don’t know how he placed them on this guy’s wrists, and when I asked, he just shrugged his shoulders and said “Well they WAS kinda hard to put on.” This from a guy who can open a can of beer by squeezing his hand around it. His customer’s chin dropped to his chest, thanks turning yet again to defeat.
I left as the Fire Department arrived. I was going to stay, but between the lack of space in the parking area and the look in the young man’s eyes as he was told the bolt cutters wouldn’t work so they were going to have to get out “a small grinder saw to remove them, but this probably shouldn’t hurt,” I just had to go.
I turned right and closed my eyes as I heard the electric “SkreeeEEEE!” sound echo from the concrete chamber behind me, and made some mental notes as I headed towards the nearest Ace Hardware.
I needed some WD-40.
When officer Alexander D. Teach is not patrolling our fair city on the heels of the criminal element, he spends his spare time volunteering for the Boehm Birth Defects Center.