Coffeehouse Chronicles ...and Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Whaddup, my fellow coffee drinkers?

Buckle up. I'm pretty sure you're in store for a long one.

The HB and I had to roll out to Rio Hondo's Police Academy the other night. She & I have to go to a police range to qualify periodically to maintain our CCWs. When we arrived, it being our first time at this satellite qualification course, we were a little surprised to see that the range was in full effect. Our expectation was that there would be no one but retirees present for the same reason that we were, to re-qual for our CCW. This place was packed with in-service deputies trying to beat the Departmental deadline and avoid getting themselves into trouble for not qualifying in time and the possibility of written discipline. Something you don’t worry about when you're a retiree and these deadlines are moot, and written discipline is a thing of the past.

Anyway, I ran into a few guys that used to work for me. Each appeared happy to see me and gave me a brotherly hug. We exchanged pleasantries, and they pretended as if I was their favorite supervisor (which we all know is probably true anyway). And by coincidence, I ran into one of my favorite supervisors. I’d always looked up to this guy when I was a young, fresh-faced deputy. Well, not literally, because in a bar situation, many of the guys would set their empty beer mugs on his head as he walked by. Not me, of course, but other guys.

He's an old Firestone guy, and this retired sergeant always liked to give off the “I’m-an-old-cranky-crotchety-supervisor” vibe. He chewed on glass and talked out of the side of his mouth with a gravelly, gritty, growly-type voice, much like Popeye the Sailor. Personally, I always could see right through the hard-as-nails exterior he liked to exude. He was a big softy. I giggled to myself as I watched him giving a brand new in-service lieutenant a hard time at the sign-in table. Heck, no doubt her dad was still in middle school back when he and I were working patrol at the ‘nox.

There was this one time, in the Watch Sergeant's office, when I was a brand new trainee, and Sergeant Sailorman set a report of mine on fire. I was then directed to generate an additional report for arson, listing myself as the suspect because, prior to my exit, there was a silver dollar-sized scorch mark left on the carpet in front of the Watch Sergeant’s desk. There's a whole lot more to this story, and while I've heard others claim that they were the subject of the very last report that spontaneously burst into flames in that very office, I know that it was me.

I will probably share that story at a later date.

Every time I see him, Sergeant Sailorman is usually holding court, because he can spin a tale, and BOY! does he love an audience. When he catches me walking in, Sergeant Sailorman will stop whatever tall tale he's spinning mid-sentence, direct everyone's attention within earshot toward me, and tell them about how he ran out of pencil lead writing 125s behind your hero. A 125 is a Department form documenting when a County vehicle has been involved in a traffic incident.

Truth be told, as a newbie, I was exhilarated by my newfound ability to drive fast, catch people, and run lights with impunity. You grow out of it, but at the time, it was intoxicating, I'll admit.

Sergeant Sailorman's favorite story to tell about your hero is the one time when my TO & I were detaining a young woman who was a frequent participant in the recreational use of a narcotic that was famous for being particularly insidious, especially in the South Central area of the City of Angels. Her detention, on the date and time indicated, was taking place in the back seat of our marked police car while we interviewed her in an attempt to snare a bigger fish.

As we were negotiating with her, our radio squawked out a request for backup. Inexperienced exuberance overtook thoughtful experience, and we both jumped into the front seat of the car, me behind the steering wheel and sped off southbound on Vermont. A few seconds later, we were exchanging paint with a gold Coupe de Ville with a white landau top, as I tried unsuccessfully to squeeze by it and another car as we traversed the painted median.

Just my luck, Sergeant Sailorman was Thirty Sam that afternoon.

Me and my TO put our heads together and came up with some cockamamie story, that although believable, any street cop worth his salt could read between the lines and realize what had really occurred.

Then we got with our detainee, Sadie the Strawberry, told her what she had witnessed from the backseat, and swore her to the same set of imaginary events.

And voila! It worked. When Sergeant Sailorman arrived, Sadie related to him the same story we hatched and related to him, almost word for word, and we somehow escaped any punitive action for the County.

That is, up until the next day when Sergeant Sailorman was then the inside sergeant and “Sadie” was being released. Sergeant Sailorman saw Sadie walking out the front door and ran out onto the front steps of the station to catch up with her.

“Hey, Saide,” he asks. “Did that accident yesterday really happen the way that Deputy Saunders told me it did?”

Saide looked around pensively to see if anyone else could hear her.

“It’s just me and you here,” Sergeant Sailorman assured her in his gravelly whisper. “We can keep it between us.”

“Well, you see, Sarge…” Sadie lisped toothlessly, her eyes darting back and forth, still looking to make sure they were out of earshot of anyone else.

Sergeant Sailorman leaned in closer, his eyes twinkling and his sinister grin giving pause to Sadie.

“AWWWW, HELLLLL NAWWWWW, SARGE! It happened just like Deputy Saunders said it did!” And Sadie stalked away toward Hawthorne Boulevard, shaking her head vigorously back and forth.

Hahaha! That happened some 35 years ago and I never tire of hearing him tell that story!

Sergeant Sailorman will claim that your hero had a record number of crashes, and full disclosure, I had a few, but the number was nowhere near record-breaking. The actual number topped out at four crashes, it's just that they were in such close succession that it seemed never-ending. I have to admit, the last one was pretty spectacular, in the fact that not only was I able to disable two marked police cars simultaneously, and although no deputy was hurt, both cars were damaged in such a way that they never saw another emergent, or routine call for that matter, ever again.

Oh good grief, I even remember catching heat for being in the passenger seat during two crashes later, in the vicinity of another crash one time, and even one more time when I had banged in sick and was several miles away on my deathbed. it was a pretty brutal time for your hero.

Hey, but I had way more good days than bad. I loved my job and most of my co-workers, including Sergeant Sailorman. I’m still waiting for when he’s gonna take me for one of those $100 hamburgers.

Drink ‘em if you got ‘em!

#coffeehousechronicles