Cops & Burritos

So I’m doing a little online shopping the other day, as I will during slack periods of my day—and let me tell you, I am just as pleased as plum pudding that the process has been rendered so simple, accessible, and comprehensive during my extended sabbatical (way to go, geek faction — keep up the good work, at this rate you’ll have us plugged into the matrix in no time), because I love shopping but detest people, bright lights, dressing rooms, pushy people in particular, leaving the house, and mindless pleasantries — and engaged in a battle of wills with some vendor in Xangxou, China, who is literally invoking the well-being of his children to avoid giving me five dollars off some piece of crap manufactured by desperate peasants in a distant sweatshop. We’re reaching the end of our allotted offer/counteroffer exchange and an Internet traffic slowdown is making me wait an extra few ticks for a response, so I’m impatiently tapping my foot and cursing the fools who would be so thoughtless as to hog the bandwidth during my break when it occurred to me — what would somebody in, say, 1790 think of me getting irritated about having to wait an extra five seconds to get a message to the other side of the world? In his day, if you wanted to do some business in China, you had to build a ship, provision it, fill it with sailors, brave the waves, elements, sea monsters, and pirates, and find your way there by guesswork and magic, not to mention navigating all the complex diplomatic protocols once you got there which, if not strictly adhered to, might result in you and your crew being enslaved or beheaded. I daresay he might be slightly astounded and not a little confused.

Anyway, so engrossed was I in my transaction that I didn’t notice someone had entered my Circle of Solitude until he spoke. “How’s it going there, Washburne?”, said an unfamiliar voice.

I knew immediately that this was not a friend or co-worker—nobody calls me Washburne except cops, and sure enough, I turned to see one of Ukiah’s finest standing there holding his bag of takeaway burritos. 

“Pretty good,” I said. I hadn’t recognized him but when I saw his name tag recalled him foiling a project or two of mine back in the day. I’ll protect his anonymity but thought what the hell, I’ll engage him.

“How’ve you been, Officer Krupke?”

“Protectin’ and servin’, you know. Been a little easier without you around.” I thought this gratuitous and doubted my contribution to crime statistics was all that significant, but I laughed politely.

“Well, consider me corrected and reformed. As you can see” — I indicated my hat and t-shirt, helpfully emblazoned with the name of my employer — “I am now a contributing member of society, drug-free, and with no intention of crossing paths with you all again. No offense.”

“None taken. You know, I read some of your stuff in the AVA while you were locked up. You’ve got real talent.”

Whaaaat the… a cop who reads? Who appreciates my work and sesquipedalian verbiage? Hell, sometimes I have trouble keeping up. It’s true what they say, wonders will indeed never cease.

“Wow,” I said, nonplussed. “Thanks, man. That’s actually — that’s very cool.”

“You should really try to do something more with it than just this local stuff.”

My back got up a little at that, in defense of the venerable AVA and the stalwart curmudgeons, myself included, who toil so selflessly and strive so determinedly to bring a little truth and beauty to the world. “I guess, I mean, there’s worse places I could be writing for. The Police Gazette? Is that still a thing? I understand it used to be a staple of barbershops and other unsavory haunts.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, if I didn’t read so much, I probably wouldn’t have either. I think it was pretty lurid and sensational, but anyway, yeah, it’d be nice to reach a wider audience and make some actual money, but competition is stiff and appreciation of actual writing rare. I think there are enough bozos out there giving away their vituperative reviews and tiresome musings for free that a lot of editors take the position that content is content and as long as the pages are filled with words, their job is done. Say, as long as I’ve got you here, mind if I ask you a question?”

“Feel free.”

“Okay, I know you guys” — I indicated the constabulary in general with a palm-up flourish — “take a generally dim view of us guys” — redirecting my hand to suggest the iniquitous tribe I no longer claim membership in — “and I was wondering, do you think we have any hope of reclamation, or do you think once a scumbag, always a scumbag? I mean, I have been pulled over for no other reason than being a skinny guy on a bike after dark. Granted, it’s a pretty fair assumption that someone of that description could be involved in some funny business, but I lost my license and I work late. It’d be nice to get the benefit of the doubt and an appreciation of my effort, you know? I realize I’ve only been out for a few months and I spent ten years making you guys earn your paychecks, but I would definitely prefer to not be in an adversarial position vis-a-vis law enforcement.”

“Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone,” he said, “but believe it or not, I’m on your side. I’m on anybody’s side who decides to change their life and get their shit together. I don’t enjoy busting you guys, except for getting you off the street and stopping the crime. That I’ve got to do, but I think it’s a damn tragedy what drugs do to people. You’re clearly too smart to be doing that stuff, man. Use it! You’ve got a gift! Lot of these guys, they’re so burnt out they’re never coming back. They’ll just keep on going until one day we scrape their bodies up off the street, but you’ve got a shot, dude. Don’t blow it.” 

I sat there silently for a moment, pondering the absurdity of getting a pep talk from a po-po in a burrito emporium. Life does take some interesting turns.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that. For what it’s worth, I’m definitely serious about not going back. That last one scared me straight.”

“I hope so. I can promise you this — if I see you out on your bike at night, I’ll presume you’re going home from work and leave you alone.”

“Hey, that’s all I ask for. Thanks for that.”

“Alright, Washburne, keep your nose clean. You take it easy.” And then he shook my hand. I’d have to check the records, but I’m pretty sure that was a first in the illustrious chronicle of my life. I was genuinely moved and felt a renewed sense of reformation. I may be sacrificing some — all? — of my criminal cred by admitting that cops are in fact human and feeling good about some positive interaction with one, but I think that may be the point.

So, I have a fan in the UPD, one in the employ of the New York Times, another on a sheep station in Australia, and recently, one from the rarefied world of big business and bigger money. I received a very nice note from a retired media mogul whose name you may recognize but whose privacy I will respect. He had some complimentary things to say about me, the AVA, and Mendocino in general, so I thought what the hell, I’m not likely to get this kind of connection falling into my lap every day, so I asked if he might be able to steer me in the direction of bigger and better things. He in turn hooked me up with an equally impressive Manhattan media exec who also liked my work and asked for further examples. So, who knows? Your humble correspondent may be on his way. Or it could come to nothing, but either way, as long as this paper is churning out the goods I’ll be a part of it.

Recognition and appreciation of my work is a fine thing and makes it all worth it, regardless of remuneration, but I’m still waiting to get noticed by Jerry Philbrick. I really won’t feel I’ll have made it until that happens.