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.
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