Bonnie Marcotte's Writing Sample

RIDE ALONG

Von opens his thermos and the delicious scent of dark roast permeates the cop car. It is

almost 11pm; normally, I would be asleep or very close to it. As he pours the coffee from the

thermos to a travel mug, I cannot stand it any longer and ask if we can please go to Jittery Joe’s.

He obliges. I dislodge myself from the front seat, my fat left thigh smarting from the laptop

mount digging into it. I take my official police radio and stride confidently into the coffee shop.

This excursion is required as part of my participation in the Athens-Clarke County Police

Department’s 40th Citizens’ Police Academy. The classroom style setting allows residents of

Athens to learn how their law enforcement actually functions. The goal is to educate and correct

common misconceptions, and for “average” people to get to know their cops, and for the cops to

get to know their civilians, the people they are tasked with protecting.

Naturally, part of the process is a ride-along, a first-hand viewing of what it is to be a

police officer. I requested to be paired with one of the few officers I know, Sergeant Von

Anderson. I have known Von for about ten years. We, more often than not, cannot have a

conversation without an argument, which has created a unique brother/sister or father/daughter

connection that I do not think either of us ever expected. Von served with the Marine Corps

before joining the Athens-Clarke County Strategic Response Team, later moving to the traffic

division as a motorcycle cop. After a motorcycle accident that nearly killed him, Von was

transferred out of traffic and now serves as the shift lead for East Side morning shift. Contrary to

its name, the shift begins at 8:45p.m. and only ends at 7a.m. the following morning. I was

extremely nervous to waltz into the police precinct metaphorically on the arm of the Sergeant—

but I almost immediately made a joke at his expense in front of his squad and that settled Von

and me into our old, comfortable and turbulent beat.

I spend most of the first two hours peppering him with questions regarding the recent

shake up in ACCPD hierarchy, needling him into gossip. And that is most of what we do. Sit and

chat. Von warned me at the beginning that we likely would not see much of anything, that I

would be terribly bored. I am never bored with Von and this night, I feel electric. But I was

starting to feel the effects of the night, which is what brought us to the coffee shop.

Von stays with the car, promising not to abandon me; even so, I am relieved when I come

back out and he is still there. I wedge myself back into the front seat, balancing radio and coffee

and notepad and we head back out into the night. Only to turn around and return to Jittery Joe’s,

as Von’s lieutenant asked to meet there. In the parking lot, I know they are discussing the

aforementioned recent and abrupt resignation of the Deputy Chief, which had been done

arguably in response to the less recent forced resignation of the Chief of Police, and I am unsure

how much of it I am allowed to hear. I pace by the car, checking notifications on my phone,

trying to eavesdrop but not look suspicious. That is when I hear a radio mumble,

then

“...in Winterville”

followed by a gruff

“Get in the car.”

I do as I am told, as fast as I am able and we pull out of the parking lot and turn left onto Gaines

School Road.

“What is going on?” I ask.

I get no response.

I know something significant is happening based on his silence–

silence that is soon pierced by the car’s sirens. I fumble with my seat belt as Von accelerates and

the blue lights swirl.

55

75

95

100

I have never been in a vehicle moving this fast; yet as we dodge civilian motorists, slamming on

breaks, swerving into the opposite lane–I feel secure. If anyone can do 100 miles per hour down

a highly trafficked street, it’s Von.

I soon learn the source of our haste, that a car has entered Clarke County at 110 miles per

hour. We arrive at an intersection at the edge of town where a roadblock has already been set up.

Law enforcement from at least three counties is present. I remain in the car, heart pounding, as

Von exits. I am anxious the whole time he is gone, but with a stupid grin spread across my face. I

love this.

The suspect gets away and the rest of the night is fairly tame. I do not last the whole shift

with Von, cutting him off in the middle of our 3a.m. argument regarding Native Americans and

beg him to take me back to the precinct. But I did get to participate in a high-speed pursuit of

sorts, which I will never forget.

But the chase is not the most memorable thing from the night.

That occurred when I ask Von, “Tell me about the first time you saw a dead body.”

Von thought for a moment and said flatly, “I don’t remember”.

STORY CRAFT

I awake before my alarm again. My entire body continues to ache from the move and I

dread removing the dear old thing from the comfort of memory foam. There is so much going

on, I would love time to be lazy. But today is not that day, and so I rise, steeling myself for the

what is ahead.

I take a shower without washing my hair. I forgo makeup. I have plenty of time, and so I

take it. Leisurely sip my coffee, slowly select my clothing. I have a very busy day, I am grumpy

and exhausted. But once I have completed my abbreviated morning routine, I am slightly

optimistic that today will not be so terrible.

I like to eat breakfast on the way to work. I walk across my tiny kitchen to my tiny pantry

and remove the bag of bagels, eagerly awaiting the texture of glorified white bread on my

tongue. That is when I see it. A large hole in the bag and an impressive bite from a bagel. I

freeze, bag suspended at eye level.

Rats.

Or mice, more likely, but rodents nonetheless. I have moved into a beautiful duplex built

in the 1920s, kept in immaculate condition. Original hardwood floors and glass door knobs. It is

a dream. Except for the vermin and my landlady’s stern “not responsible for pest control”

policy.

My bad mood bubbles as I stalk to the car and call my brother who is an exterminator. He

calmly, coolly explains to me how to address the problem. The solution is straightforward and

simple. I say goodbye to him as I pull into the Dunkin’ Donuts drive thru for a replacement

bagel. I get to work, ask my boss if I can leave at lunch to exterminate and set my plan in motion.

Which is-purchase glue traps.

I feel like a monster as I pick up the packaging. I know it must be done but the thought of

killing a tiny mouse makes me cringe. But I persist. I get the traps, along with several treats for

myself for being such a strong warrior and plastic containers in which to store all of my dry

goods and head home for what I must do.

I place two traps on the pantry shelves, next to the purloined pastry. I have done it. Now I

wait.

I anticipate that when my exhausted body sinks back into the bed and my heavy eyelids

close that I will relish the rest; or will I dread the morning to come, knowing the possibility of a

struggling creature is what I may wake to. Will I dream of mice, fat off my bread, laughing at my

attempt at entrapment? Or will I have nightmares of the helpless tiny thing squeaking the night

through, mired in glue as he just tries to get food for his family? I dread this as I brush my teeth.

I get in bed and before I can start counting mice, I am asleep, preparing for another battle with

the intruders tomorrow.

And fresh bagels stored in impenetrable plastic bins.

MAMA’S BOY AND GRANDPA’S GIRL

“Join us at Mama’s Boy?”

The “us” being my mother, my grandmother and grandfather. I sat at my desk at work,

conflicted.

“I’m at work. Are you at the one in Oconee?”

“No downtown. Got the report. Don’t know any more than we did.”

I work on the other side of town, the weather is nasty. But I have not seen my grandpa since my

mom’s initial text two weeks prior.

“I’ll come say hello.”

I hurry to my car, ignoring the desire to light five cigarettes at once and instead search the

quickest way to the restaurant. I feel a strong sense of urgency, as if I do not get to Grandpa fast

enough, he might disappear. I chain smoke on the short ride there and park in an abandoned auto

shop across the street. I had left my coat at work, thinking my faux fur vest would shield me

from the cold and damp, not anticipating having to park so far from the door. The wind pulls my

hair and my umbrella, frigid rain water makes its way into my old boots. I try to ignore the

portent weather and rush into the cramped restaurant. I almost feel in a daze, not sure what to

expect when I see my family. Will Grandpa look smaller? Will he look sick? Will I burst into

tears the moment I see him?

No. None of this happens. I make my way to the back of the restaurant and in a corner,

there they are. Mom, grandparents and my sister Hannah. I all but knock a waitress out of the

way to get to the table, grabbing the nearest empty chair I see and anchoring it as near to Paul

Bond as possible without sitting directly in his lap.

He is here still and I am next to him.

I am chided for not wearing a coat, questioned repeatedly as to why I do not order food.

None of it matters though, I am with Grandpa. I feel like a child again. I take photos of him, I

make him take a selfie with me, like we did at Will and Karrington’s wedding. When he finishes

eating, I link my arm through his and lay my head on his shoulder.

I ask if I can come out to their house this weekend and if Grandma will make chicken and

dumplings for me. She says no to both, but Grandpa whispers that I am allowed to come Sunday

morning.

We get up to leave, slowly. Grandpa’s walker has become wedged behind the table in the

corner and we all wait for him to gain stability before our exit. As we walk to the door, my

mother links her arm through mine, as I had done with his, and as he had done with me, she

whispers in my ear,

“It’s not good.”

I feel sick, yet composed. We take more pictures outside and say our goodbyes. I make

the trek to my car, chain smoke back to work in an even thicker fog than before. I walk into my

office and almost immediately, two co-workers flock to check on me. I looked at them both,

mute. Then one woman asks,

“Are you ok?”

Which is when I let them know that I am not.

I begin to sob.

It has been almost a month since Mom told me about Grandpa’s cancer and for the first

time, I cry. I acknowledge. The coworker simply wraps her arms around me and allows me to

cry, holding my head to her heart.

Not only do I have to acknowledge my grandfather’s mortality, I have to watch him die, a

task for which I am grossly underprepared.