In which Officer Alex grosses out his partner…again
It was late and we were ready to go, really ready, we were in overtime, but it was voluntary for once so there was no one to blame but ourselves. DUI reduction…how desperate we were for money at the moment.
I’d pulled off the highway for a Breakfast of Champions (a day-old roller-dog with spicy mustard and sauerkraut, two things that cannot go bad, therefore adding to the shelf life of both myself and the dog they adorned) when I heard my partner get out with a customer two exits north.
I packed up my intended meal in its clear plastic palace of a hot-dog carrier and topped off my coffee mug before heading out the door, because you could always eat later, but you couldn’t go back in time if you were late as back-up for your bro.
I had eased up to the GMC Yukon and checked its contents out from rear to front, making mental notes of what I saw while actually just looking to make sure there was no one crouched down with a handgun or a broadsword or anything, and I continued towards the front after the sweep to stand aside while the arduous task of explaining sobriety tests to a clearly intoxicated man got underway.
The gentleman was in his late 50s and had trouble standing, but he made up for this impairment by being really unpleasant in general. Which, it turns out, is a bad approach to take when you’re caught speeding while drunk and you have 18.9 grams of cocaine, seven grams of weed, paraphernalia for both, and $4,020 cash in your pockets incident to arrest (refusal to take any tests inexorably leading to this).
Rick called a supervisor out so that the gentleman in question (let’s call him “Mr. Henderson”) could count the money with us on video on the hood of the car (lest the drunk guy carrying weed and coke who happens to be living with his mom at age 57 cast aspersions upon our character), while I started to inventory his vehicle before it was towed off.
Everything was normal. Seed burns on the seats to match the seeds in the ashtray, no current proof of insurance, a wrinkled paper grocery sack in the back seat filled with giant rubber %$#@s, an aluminum ball bat with…wait, what?
In law enforcement, there are so many horrible things to deal with I’m not sure if I could list them in a single day, much less a single newspaper column. Blood? Feces? Decayed animals, decayed owners of animals? Animals filled with decayed owners?
Check, check, check, check and check.
But of all the things we hate to find and deal with, a used sex toy is at the top of the list. And what’s worse than a used sex toy? A whole bunch of the bastards.
I backed out of the vehicle with a frown etched onto my face, and I wordlessly reached for the back of my utility belt to get my gloves out.
Mr. Henderson noticed this while leaning against my partners Crown Vic, obscenities still flowing from his mouth about his inconvenience. “How can you be upset?” I asked. He looked and mumbled “What…?” “You. How can you be upset? You should be the most relaxed man I’ve ever met. All these neck massagers in here, the weed, a pocket full of cash…what the hell can you be upset about? Unless that’s what the coke’s for?”
He was puzzled.
“The %$#@s, bro. You have a sack full of %$#@s back here.” He was quiet, thinking of a response, so I reached into the bag. “Here, this one. What is this? My God, am I the King of England now for pulling this out? Rick. Look at this thing!” I helicoptered it a moment for effect.
“That’s not mine,” Mr. Henderson mumbled, suddenly regaining his composure.
“Wait, what? You claim the weed, the coke, the cash…but you’re shy?”
My partner put his hands up, palms out. “STOP. Just stop right there. Please just count the %$#@s in the bag and roll. Thanks, man but…oh God.” He had a point.
Seventeen. I’d gone years without seeing one, and tonight I had to count, by hand, 17 big rubber %$#@s. “Put this in the recruiting literature,” I thought.
I looked over in my passenger seat, and there was my abandoned meal…a hot dog.
I paused. “What the hell,” I thought, and opened it up.