Duh...ope #3- Cop Humor

           Leaning back in my chair I took in the motley Tex-Mex décor and conducted the ambient Tejano music with my dried, re-fried bean covered fork. As I drained my third cerveza, I sensed a presence behind me so I turned my head slightly and saw that "Jesus" had come with the check. Blinking, I cleared my head with a shake and double-checked the alcohol content on the bottle before returning my gaze back to the newcomer; only to  find that “He” had been replaced by a Hispanic guy named "Hay-sus".

          “Good beer,” I complimented the waiter who simply nodded in silent acquiescence.

          Handing over my debit card, I waited patiently for the second coming of Hay-sus; overcome with jubilation at learning my card had not been denied. I then searched my shirt pocket for something to sign the check and, finding nothing, turned an apologetic gaze towards my host who smiled benevolently. It was then that Hay-sus reached into the folds of the canvas pouch around his waist and drew forth the artifact, the likes of which I had never seen nor even heard whispers of until that day.

          I cannot be sure if the radiance originated from some divine force within the item that Hay-sus produced or whether it was simply a trick of the restaurant’s gas lamps. Either way, I was both blinded by and drawn to it’s radiance as I fought to identify the brilliantly shining object from behind the shield of my outthrust hand.

          “It…it’s beautiful,” I said, fighting to hold back the tear that rolled down my cheek on its own accord.         

          Hay-sus closed his eyes and beamed as he concurred with another silent nod of his head.

          “Wh-what is it?” I asked.

          With a gesture not unlike that of a king bestowing a blessed sword upon a favored knight, Hay-sus held the object out for me to take. I was stunned and all at once I felt unworthy of the offering. I could not, did not, possess the strength needed to accept the thing and so, imagine my surprise upon the realization that my hand reached out under it’s own volition; shaking with uncertainty as if seeking assuage in that magical relic for all my unspoken woes. As my fingertips caressed the item, the spell was instantly broken and I looked down at my prize.

          It was a pen…

          Oh, but what a pen it was. Nearly thirteen inches long and more than an inch and a half thick; it was a bright, neon-orange with a chrome clippy thingy and matching clicker button. The muses must have whispered their sweet song into the ear of its creator for along one side, someone had the remarkable insight to print the restaurant’s name and contact information in bright-white calligraphy. In other words, it was a marvel of modern advertising technology and I had to have it.

          “So, uh. What’s a guy got to do to get their hands on something like this?” I asked after signing the bill.

          “It’s not for sale,” Hay-sus replied, his accent thick.

          Looking around slyly, I drew a twenty dollar bill from my pocket and held it up between two fingers, “Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement,” I insisted.

          “It’s not for sale,” Hay-sus repeated and walked away, leaving me seething in my wanton desire for the extraordinary writing implement I now held dear.

          I was busy deciding exactly how to give Hay-sus a piece of my mind when he began walking towards my table, a handful of huge pens protruding from the satchel around his waist.

          By the Gods,what vile sorcery was this?  Not only did Hay-sus possess my precioussss, he now had several facsimiles which he obviously planned to flaunt. 

          I felt my lip curling as Hay-sus neared. As our eyes met, I could detect not one tinge of callousness in those reptilian orbs and I felt my rage rising at his blasé attitude. Just what pit of Hell had this demon-spawn crawled?

          “Here you go,” Hay-sus said as he laid four pens down on the table in an obvious ruse designed to humiliate me.

          “And what is this?” I asked, playing along with his sick little game.

          “I’ve only got one orange, but I’ve got two blues and a red. I hope that’s Okay.”

          “Wh-what?” I stammered, realizing that he was in fact offering the pens up as a gift. “For me?” I asked, feeling the warm rainbow of colors illuminating my face.

          “Um, yeah,” Hay-sus replied with a sideways glance at me, “Like I said, they’re free so I brought a couple extra for the kids too.”

          Looking around the table I recognized the smiling faces of my children and cringed at the thought of having to share my newfound treasures…

          And that is how I ended up with my big ol’ orange pen or “Boop” as I lovingly referred to it.

          A month or so later, while perusing the office supply aisle of the local Walgreens, I happened upon another, smaller version of that selfsame pen. It was identical in every way, shape and form, only in miniature and without the “Casa de los Tacos” advertisement on the side (which, I might add, I was a bit put-off by). Pushing aside my disdain for the lack of elegantly printed scrollwork, I purchased that little ol’ orange pen and was pleased by the fact that I now had a matching “Loop” to go with my “Boop”; both of which eventually found a home in the void of the black-hole commonly known as the center console of my unmarked police unit.

          Okay, on with the main story…

          One of the Sheriff’s Department details I used to work was the standard DUI checkpoint. If you’re not familiar with these little state funded dog and pony shows, they involve the monitoring of traffic at pre-determined and highly publicized locations in order to hinder drunks from smashing into people while rudely slowing up regular, law abiding traffic in the process. The basis of the gig is to speak to drivers as they pass through a well lit cordon, reminiscent of the San Ysidro border crossing, with the hopes of catching a violator. Some times you get lucky and find a few that didn’t see the announcement in the paper, other times it’s a wash.

          (As a side note, I often wondered why we never set these checkpoints up outside the local drive-thru daiquiri shops... and yes, we have drive through daiquiri shops in Louisiana.)

          As a Narc, I was a bit too hairy to present a “professional” appearance to the general public; thus I didn’t perform many roadside interviews. I usually acted as an interceptor for those people whose hectic schedules didn’t include stopping at the checkpoint; but most of the time I hung around the mobile incarceration unit for security purposes drinking free coffee. One night, while in the midst of a stimulating discussion about homemade tattoo guns with some of the prison’s trustees (i.e. cheap labor) I was approached by one of the deputies working the checkpoint.

          “I think we got 966 in a vehicle over here,” the deputy informed me, using cop jargon for both “marijuana” and “car”.

          “Okay,” I said and turned back to my discussion.

          “You want to check it out?” the deputy asked. “I mean, if you have time in your busy schedule that is.”

          Oh yeah, that’s right, as a representative of the narcotics bureau I was also the acting “expert” on all things drug related. Thus, the other reason I was out there when I should be at home with the wife and kids.

          Heaving a sigh I said, “Well, all right. Seeing how I’m here…”

          “Gee thanks,” the deputy said, a sardonic grin on his face.

          “See you guys in three to five,” I told the trustees and, after refilling my coffee cup, sauntered over to the vehicle in question. It was a car alright and from the smell coming out of the open doors I could understand why the guys thought the driver might be “holding”.

          “Got a driver?” I asked.

          “No, we’re thinking the car is the only suspect,” the deputy answered dead-pan. “We’re holding it for questioning.”

          Great. Midnight on a Friday night and everybody wants to be a frickin’ comedian.

          “May I speak to the vehicle’s operator?” I asked, enunciating each word carefully and pantomiming a steering wheel for my special needs co-worker.

          “He’s over here,” Deputy Gump said with a grin and led me to the shoulder of the road where three cops were standing in front of a young, white male with short, peroxide blonde hair, a tattoo running up his neck and an obvious attitude. As I neared the group I overheard the suspect answering the officers’ questions with short smart-alecky responses and ending his quips with “brah”. As in: “I ain’t done nothing brah.”

          Double negatives aside, there’s nothing I hate more than being called “brah”, especially by a suspect. From the looks on the other officers’ faces, I could tell I wasn’t the only one.

          “What’s up fellas?” I asked as I came up behind the suspect and put a hand on his shoulder. This caused the suspect to slowly turn his head toward me in all my bearded glory. Where my fellow deputies were clean cut, I had a full-blown Allman Brother’s look going on. Where the rest of the guys were in pressed uniforms with shiny leather duty belts, I was wearing jeans and a black “Bureau of Narcotics Investigations” T-shirt over which I had thrown a tactical vest rig; my sidearm being secured in a drop leg thigh holster along my right side.

          “How you doing tonight buddy?” I asked the driver, sniffing the reek of freshly burnt weed saturating his clothing. At about five foot eight and a hundred forty pounds soaking wet, his eyes were bloodshot and quite narrow; which, with his blonde hair, made him look like an oriental Eminem.

          “You know brah,” he began and I winced, “It’s all good. I already told these dudes I was smoking’ earlier, so I’m only a little high, brah.”

          “I hear ya…” I began, trying to quell the twitching nerve in my left eye at having been called that offensive moniker not once, but twice. “Let me go ahead and introduce myself so we won’t have any more of that brah shit. My name is Sergeant Saturley. From here on out you may call me Sergeant, Sarge, Sat, Sir or any combination thereof. Any deviation from the program will result in my growing aggravated and your becoming human origami. Capeesh?”

          The suspect “psshed” once and nodded, which, as far as I was concerned, was better than him speaking... But only slightly.

          “It’s been brought to my attention that you may be in possession of and or under the influence of an illegal substance, namely marijuana. Being that’s the case, I’d like to run a couple of tests to either prove or discount this theory. Do you understand?”

          “Man, they already done them tests br-” he cut himself off in the nick of time as my eyebrow arched dangerously.

          “Those were for alcohol,” I explained, “The tests I’m referring to are designed to determine whether or not you are under the influence of any narcotics. But, if you prefer, I’m sure any of these fine officers wouldn’t mind escorting you to the nearest hospital where they can draw blood. It’s your choice.”

          “Man, whatever,” the suspect said.

          “I’m going to take that as you’re planning on going along with the program. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I told everyone else and headed off to my unit to find the tools I needed. More specifically, a flashlight and a pen, neither of which I had on my person due to an earlier assumption that I wouldn’t actually be doing any work that night.

          Rooting around in the center console, I just so happened upon my “Boop” and an evil thought occurred to me. Grinning to myself, I located my “Loop” and stuck it in my vest pocket. Returning to the suspect I began spewing off the speech known to all those who have ever been suspected of driving under the influence, with a few of my own modifications of course.

          “One of the basic tests to determine if you’ve been smoking Marijuana is to see if you can spell it. Can you?” I asked.

          “Um,” the driver paused and squinted even more in thought, “M-a-r-y …”

          “Bzzz,” I said, “Wrong. Try again.”

          “M-a-r-i-j-u-a-n-a…”

          “Bzzz, wrong again,” I said. I could see the other cops running the spelling through their minds so I let them off the hook. “What I asked was if you could spell ‘it’ which is spelled i-t.”

          “Ah man,” the driver said, “I wasn’t think…”

          “I won’t hold it against you.” I began as I clicked on my flashlight dramatically. Looking toward another officer over the suspect’s shoulder I said, “You know, they say that if you smoke weed, you can’t cross your eyes.”

          (I’ll wait while you check…done? Okay.)

          “Really?” the suspect asked.

          “Absolutely,” I said, pulling my “Loop” out of my pocket and holding in front of his face. “But you’re not worried about that are you?”

          “Nuh-uh,” he answered with a nervous chuckle. “Do what you do. It’s all good.”

           Which, it wasn’t. At least not for him. Without getting into the particulars of nystagmus tests and lack of convergence, I’ll cut to the chase and tell you this guy was as high as a kite. Which meant it was now time for a little fun.

          “You’re doing great, but I have one final test,” once again I held my “Loop” in front of the suspect’s eyes. “It’s a standard assessment designed for your safety and used to determine if you’ve inadvertently ingested any hallucinogenic substances such as Khat, Mescaline, Ginko Biloba or Jubunga…”

          “What? I don’t even know what any of that shit is brah…” he said, and while it still grated my nerves, I let it slide considering the circumstances.

          “Oh man. It’s some bad stuff,” I told him, quite seriously; despite the grins of the cops standing behind him, “It’s used by Al-Qaeda operatives in Mexico to lace marijuana coming through the notorious Paralelogramo de oro. They say that one time is enough to make you crazy, right before it kills you. You didn’t smoke any Mexican weed earlier did you?”

          “I-I don’t know man.”

          “Oh shit. I guess there’s only one way to tell, but we have to hurry. I’m going to shine this light in your eyes while you focus on my pen. When I tell you to, I want you to shut your eyes as tight as you can until I tell you to open them. Do you understand?”

          “I-I mean, I think so,” he stammered.

          “For the love of God man, this is serious. I have to be certain that you clearly understand.”

          The suspect nodded quickly, “I understand,” he said.

          I shined the light into his eyes at an angle, allowing him to clearly see my little ol’ orange pen. “Now, close your eyes. Tighter, and no peeking. Okay, so far everything looks normal but I need you to stay like that until I tell you to open them.”

          When I was certain his eyes were completely closed, I slid the “Loop” into my back pocket where I had concealed it’s larger sibling. Then, holding the “Boop” exactly as I had been holding the smaller pen a moment before, I instructed the suspect to open his eyes…

          And could not have hoped for a better reaction.

          As the suspect opened his eyes and focused on the “Boop”, a confused expression began to slowly permeate his features. Those same eyes that had been nearly closed upon first making his acquaintance suddenly grew to the size of red veined golf balls. He then blinked rapidly and turned his face away slightly; only to feel the same otherworldly magnetism that I experienced upon first encountering the mystical marker. He fought the urge to look, but could not resist the power of the big ol’ orange pen and finally succumbed to the influence of that which now held him spellbound. I looked on with morbid fascination as a delirious grin appeared at the corner of the suspect’s mouth, knowing he was far-gone and as unaware that the “Boop” had begun to rend his remaining sanity to shreds as he was of the single string of drool that trickled down his chin.

          “You doing okay?” I asked as I flicked the big pen side to side in front of his face.

          The suspect could still neither look directly at me, nor at the pen, as he mumbled some kind of an incoherent affirmative that ended with, “sir.”

          “Are you sure?” I asked. To this day, I don’t know how I managed to keep a straight face based on the antics going on behind this poor soul’s back. In fact, before then I didn’t realize it was possible to silently guffaw.

          The suspect slowly began to regain his bearing and stood up straight, but still could only manage a sideways glance at the pen as he nodded.

          “It seems you might have been subjected to trace amounts of Ginko,” I advised him in my best clinical voice, “But I need you to close your eyes again in order to confirm. Just like before. Got it?”

          His head bounced like it was attached to a slinky and he closed his eyes before I had the chance to give the order. If I didn’t know better, I would almost swear he clicked his heels together and began muttering a manta about “going home”.

          Once again I switched the pens and instructed him to open his eyes. While the result was slightly less extreme, his response did not disappoint and he stood there his mouth hanging open as a relieved “huff” escaped from the bottom of his lungs. Not only was his buzz officially killed, but it had been dressed in its Sunday’s best and buried.

          “Nope, guess I was wrong. Looks like you’re good to go,” I informed him, “But you still might want to follow up with your physician.” I then walked off, leaving him in a semi-dazed state.

          “Oh, he’s been smoking for sure,” I told an officer in passing, “But unless he’s got dope in the car there’s not much I can do with him so he’s all yours.” When it was confirmed there was nothing illegal in the car (which he probably tossed out at seeing the big, bright, lunar-base lights of the checkpoint) I went back to my earlier conversation. 

          If there’s a moral to this story I figure it would have to be: “being a little high is like being a little pregnant; especially when dealing with a cop that likes to screw with people”. The way I figure it, I probably did the guy a favor and he swore off dope right after that. Then again, I might be wrong and, as soon as he was able to, he called up his supplier looking to get his hands on some more of that primo, ginko-biloba laced weed.