I arrived at the Langley Police Department approximately five hours after being unceremoniously dumped at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere in the darkness of early morning tired, hungry, sober, and a little foot sore, though nonetheless determined and indignant. The sun had only recently risen. I arrived at the detachment on the wings of the belief that the actions of a rogue constable would not be found acceptable to the powers that be in the Langley police department. Someone needed to take Constable Shithead down a peg or two and I was just the man to do it. I deserved the respect.
Always the angry young man, I threw open the door to the detachment with a head of steam that I had worked up while walking into town and walked across a broad lobby directly up too the front desk, which had a second floor railing above and behind it and a lone officer positioned on the other side in the middle of it. The officer was preoccupied with writing in a file on the desk top before him and took no notice of my approach. I did not wait passively for my presence to be acknowledged.
“I want to speak to the supervisor in charge,” I demanded.
Continuing to write and without looking up the officer replied, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Not good enough,” I insisted. “I just finished walking for five hours because of you people. I’m not going to be put off. I want the supervisor now!”
The officer put down his pen and looked up slowly with a completely unflappable demeanor. He looked me up and down in my tattered jacket and ragged jeans, worn out sneakers, and dirty, unkempt hair appearing very much the part of the homeless wanderer I was. I could be called a lot of things standing there, but fashionable was not one of them, unless, of course, you consider vagabond chic a fashion statement. “And what has your skivvies in a knot that you are all worked up about that can’t wait?” he asked looking down his nose at me.
Not willing to waste my time with an underling who had no power over Constable Shithead I asked, “Are you the supervisor in charge?”
“No,” he answered plainly.
“Then go and get him!” I commanded.
“I won’t be going to get anyone until I understand what the problem is,” he said matter of factly. “So what is the problem?”
Mistakenly thinking persistence would get me the desired result of being able to give my complaint to someone that could do something about it I responded, “The problem doesn’t concern you. It is a matter for your supervisor. I need to talk to him now.”
Unmoved, the officer crossed his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side, “Look. Either you tell me what the problem is, or you tell no one. What’s it going to be?” He looked at me coolly and waited impassive.
Perceiving him as immoveable, I gave it up trying to control him and played it his way telling him the whole sordid story. I made it a point to emphasize Constable Shithead’s total lack of manners throughout the whole ordeal. I mean, what’s a sound thrashing without an attempt to be civilized? It’s like date rape without dinner and a movie first. Barbaric I tell you, barbaric. (I know. I’ll get letters.)
Throughout the rendering of my tale, during which I was quite animated, the officer stood impassive before me his eyes locked on mine taking it all in. At the end of the tale I stopped to draw breath and await his response.
“I will have to take your statement at some point before you go. Wait here. I’ll be back,” and with no further ado he stood up from his stool, turned, and walked 15 feet back from the front desk to a door in a wall parallel to the front desk and disappeared from view.
“Finally,” I thought, calming down some. “He is persuaded of the unjust nature of the actions taken against me and he is off to get the supervisor. And the mouse before the lion shall roar!” I waited expectantly for the officer’s return.