greybean.com

“I don’t ever want to see either of you in here again,” said Officer Sanderson, the straight-out-of-70’s-porn, it’s-part-of-the-uniform-ma’am moustache barely moving above his lip. “Now, beat it.”

And there we were, banished from The Gap for life. The Roman Polanskis of middle-class fashion. The Andrew Dice Clays of pretentious, overpriced, “pre-weathered” jeans.

Alisia and I had stopped that Wednesday evening in search of a belt for me. We were attending a company function at her office that coming Friday to which I’d be wearing my black suit, and the only belt I seemed to own was brown, although we were pretty sure we’d gone on this same shopping trip for a black belt the last time I’d had to wear that suit. But whatever.

We arrived at 6:50, knowing full well that The Gap closed at seven o’ clock. But how long could belt shopping take? As we entered the store, I nodded in greeting to the police officer stationed near the door—Officer Sanderson, I would find out later—in that way that people tend to act with unjustified familiarity with the police, firefighters, military personnel, or really anyone who might make a person feel a twinge of guilt for not having done something more “heroic” with their lives. Or, perhaps with police officers, that look is meant to convey something more like, “See? You don’t have to worry about me. What are the chances that I’ve got six kilos of heroin hidden under the upholstery of my car if I have the gumption to nod to you in salutation? Pretty small, I’d say.” Either way, I did the macho head bob thing, feeling slightly like an idiot, and headed into the store.

As Alisia perused women’s tops and jeans, I looked quickly through the men’s belts, wrapping a few around my waist trying to find one that fit.

Now, one would think that if one’s waist size is thirty-six inches, one’s belt size might also be thirty-six inches, but that isn’t the case, is it? Through some feat of metric-to-American conversion, or in some strange parallel to women’s vs. men’s shoe sizes, my belt size is some non-36 number, like 42 or 44 or 21, which I can never remember. So, I just grab belts off the rack by the handful and wrap them around me until one fits. Makes sense, right?

Anyway, once I found one that was to my liking lengthwise, I quickly made sure that it fit into my belt loop while hoping that the belt loops on my jeans weren’t bigger than the loops on my suit’s pants. What could be worse than purchasing a belt that fit comfortably around my waist, only to find that I’d have to, I dunno, staple it to my pants or something? Hardly anything.

Finally satisfied with a particular belt, we paid for it and were on our way out the door, just a minute or so before seven. Officer Sanderson was now out on the sidewalk, leaning on the hood of his cruiser, and I could feel myself preparing to tell him to have a “good one”—we’re old pals, remember?—as Alisia and I passed him on the way to our car.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk and as my mouth started to form the words, he said to us, “Okay, now, why don’t you give me what you took?”

For a moment, I couldn’t comprehend the meaning of his sentence, until I realized: this must be some funny policeman version of humor. Ha ha. “What we took.” Isn’t that a funny little joke? But, wow, I thought, this guy has taken the whole I-can-act-familiar-with-you-because-I’m-a-cop thing to the point that he can joke with us about shoplifting? That’s actually kinda cool.

Alisia and I both sort of smiled without slowing our stride and I said, “Right…” and laughed awkwardly.

Officer Sanderson moved to block our path and said to Alisia, “I know you put it in your clothes.”

Alisia continued, though a bit more uncomfortably, with the ha-ha-this-is-funny routine and said, “Sure I did. I put it right down my pants.”

Sanderson, stone-faced, said nothing and waited somewhat expectantly.

I could delude myself into thinking this guy was kidding no longer. “Wait a minute,” I said, knowing what the answer would be, “are you being serious?”

Officer Sanderson’s matter-of-fact response was that he’d seen Alisia take the belt and that it was in our best interest to give it to him without any further argument.

I could have understood how he might’ve been suspicious watching me fumbling around with all of those belts, but what a crock of shit. Alisia’d never even held the belt, say nothing about her having concealed it somewhere in her clothes.

This was the point where I started to reassess Officer Sandflea.

We tend to canonize police officers, but think, for instance, about the people you know from high school who’ve become cops. Are they the kitten-saving, C.P.R.-knowing, heroic do-gooders in your class? I doubt it. Nope. They’re the mid-level idiots from the football team, aren’t they? Of the jock class, they’re the ones just above the life-long Jiffy Lube employees, and just below those clever fellows who found themselves better paying—and lower risk—jobs as phys-ed teachers. We think of cops as selfless heroes and give them medals, but in reality, Police Officer is a fallback career, not unlike the military. These goons who couldn’t get a job as a bank teller are charged with keeping the peace.

I could just picture Sandy, back in his heyday, pitching a two-hitter against Rocky Hill and then nailing a cheerleader or two in the back of his Camaro after the game. And here he is now, standing here with his standard-issue moustache, all puffed up in his uniform with what he hopes we think is a bulletproof vest—but what we all know is really six or seven extra crullers each week—with his thumbs wedged into the waist of his pants and his hemorrhoids from two or three too many seventy-six hour stakeouts barking incessantly.

This guy isn’t playfully messing around with us. He’s pissed off at the world, and he’s taking it out on us because he can, because he’s The Law.

“Look, I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and neither has she,” I quipped, not entirely truthfully, but who’s counting? “I don’t know what you think you saw, but no one stole anything. We bought this belt. Look.” I opened our Gap bag and showed him the belt and receipt.

“I don’t care if you bought that belt. It’s the one the two of you stole that I’m concerned with.” This guy was frigging incorrigible.

I was just starting to imagine myself in a holding cell in some Tijuanan jailhouse, pissing into a bucket, when my next plan of action struck me. Banging on the door of the now closed Gap, I summoned the store’s manager and had her explain to the officer that there was no problem and that we’d paid for whatever accessories he thought we might’ve taken.

Amazingly, Officer Sandtrap wouldn’t budge at these new revelations either. “Okay, that’s enough,” I said. “We don’t have anything that’s stolen, we do have an item that we can prove we paid for, and the clothier in question has no complaint. You need to either arrest us or we’re leaving.”

My heart was pounding out of amazement that I’d gotten all of those words out correctly and out of sheer, undiluted anger. This was about as justifiably indignant as a suburban white kid could ever get with a cop, and I was going to take full advantage of it.

Once I was sure that the top of my head would pop right off if I stood there staring at this useless policeman any longer, I turned to walk away and motioned for Alisia to do the same.

“I don’t ever want to see either of you in here again,” Sandstorm said to our backs. As I whipped around to look at him, he continued: “Now, get lost.”

And I was on him like a cougar mauling a jogger in Los Angeles, my pasty white fingers tightening around his almost nonexistent neck. It was with a not insignificant amount of glee that I watched the vessels in his eyes start to burst as he strained for air. I felt him beneath me, grasping for his night stick, and in one master kung fu movement he was subdued by a headlock, and I was bashing his skull, face first, into that silly spotlight on the side-view mirror of his cruiser. I tried to get my point across during the moments of consciousness I was pretty sure he was achieving between each blow:

“Don’t.” Blam.

“You.” Blam.

“Under.” Blam.

“Stand.” Blam.

“That this.” Blam.

“Is why.” Blam.

“People.” Blam.

“Think.” Blam.

“That cops.” Blam.

“Are ass.” Blam.

“Holes?” Blam.

And I dropped him to the pavement as the smashed spotlight dangled from its fixture.

· · ·

Well, maybe it didn’t go quite like that. Maybe it was more like he told us to “get lost,” and I went completely blank for a moment, so filled with anger and violation that I just couldn’t come up with a way to react. Maybe a few moments later I fumbled out, “What’s your badge number?” And maybe he told me with a sneer that meant, “You’re just some sniveling civilian, and I’m Eliot Ness. Don’t get delusions of grandeur and think that you’ll be able to change anything by knowing that I wear badge 3821.” Maybe I read OFFICER SANDERSON on the tag on his chest and thought about the official complaints we’d file, and the letters to the editor we’d write, and the 60 Minutes crews coming to film our Mike Wallace interview.

And maybe I committed his name and badge number to memory and then did absolutely nothing with that information, save for writing this.

Yeah, that’s probably more how it went.

————

The above was my second submission to Professor Listro’s Narrative Nonfiction class.