STAND BACK, GET SOME FRESH AIR!
YOU'LL NEED IT BEFORE MEETING THIS PAIR!
in "Bright Lights, Big City" Back To the Beat with Two of Chicago’s Finest A www.thecolumnists.com Production |
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 "Poor Andy! All those years of street experience and he still doesn't know how to turn off some amorous seniors' advances." |
Watch out, bad guys!
They'e back on the job!
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Gina Gallo and Andy Murcia were street cops in some of Chicago's roughest crime areas, but never actually worked together. Now that they're both writing for this website, we thought it might be fun to make them "partners in crime," so to speak. Given the vivid imaginations of these two colorful writers, we warn you to be prepared for one of the wildest patrol car rides since Ma and Pa Kettle met the Blackboard Jungle Street Punks. |
of TheColumnists.com
P.O.V. GALLO
Just past midnight and already it’s starting.
Haven’t even had a chance to nose our squad car out of the
18th district parking lot before we get our first assignment.
“Disturbance with the man,” the dispatcher tells us.
“On the corner of State and Division.”
It’s an address right
in the middle of Party Central, Chicago’s famed Gold Coast--the
playground of the rich, the decadent, and cab drivers who assure
us they were brain surgeons in their home countries. We inch
down streets clogged with partying frat boys, conventioneers
and assorted folks wearing the befuddled looks of the seriously
drunk or recently lobotomized. My partner Andy says the only
way to tell the difference is to light a match near the mouth.
Lobotomized patients won't spontaneously combust.
We pull up to the corner of Division and State where a behemoth
blonde in a pink tutu is holding court. The sequins on his outfit
nicely complement his glazed eyes and the sweat studding his
beefy face, details lost on Andy, who hasn’t had his first
coffee of the night. Without a caffeine fix, his tolerance for
prima ballerina transvestites tends to nosedive. Meanwhile, our
tutu’d tootsie is drawing a crowd. Maybe it’s because
his feet hurt from being crammed into those four-inch stilettos,
but he’s screaming about Armageddon. Since we’re not
sure if he’s a movie reviewer or a religious fanatic, we’ll
have to investigate.
P.O.V. MURCIA
Well, here we go! Out of the squad, Gallo & Murcia
on foot, through the crowd. Ballet boy tosses us the evil eye,
especially when I say, “C’mon beautiful, you’re
way too gorgeous for these brutes, they’d only abuse you.
Oh, I didn’t mean to excite you. Do I know you? You’re
a star, girl! Now bend your head as you get in our limo."
Before she slaps the cuffs on, I have Gallo pat our passenger
down. (Delegating authority is one of my favorite advantages
of being the senior partner. )
After a quick stop in the
station to book the Blonde Bombshell for disorderly conduct,
we're back on the street. Maybe this time we can take care of
some real business. With all the authority of the senior man,
I tell Gallo, "Let's take the course of least resistance,
and hit Candy’s for my café latte, non-fat, please."
Barreling down Rush Street, she barely spares me a glance.
"Your furlough in L.A. is showing, buddy boy! Yeah, weird
city and expensive too--did you know that for every French word
you add on while ordering coffee out there, they add a buck?
They charge $7.95 for a #5 coffee! What kind of rip-off is THAT?"
For a non-coffee drinker, she has a point. On the other hand, my partner is the last person on the planet who needs caffeine. Judging by the way she drives, like the Indy 500 champ on amphetamines, a cup of joe would only gild the lily. But if I don't get some java soon, there'll be some serious repercussions. And I'm just about to tell her so when....
P.O.V. GALLO
We spot the elderly man on LaSalle Street in front
of the Humane Society. At least, we think he's elderly--hard
to tell when he's down on all fours, baying at the moon. He's
staring at the "Adopt-a-Pet" posters that grace the
building's windows, either in worship or lust. Twenty years on
the job has given my partner more experience in close encounters
of the animal kind, and this time, I'm happy to defer to his
expertise.
On our approach, the man informs us that it's the eve of Summer
Solstice, a time when the Goddess of the Underworld demands sacrifice.
"Yeah, I saw that episode of XENA, too," Andy tells
him patiently. "Nice ta-tas on the babe."
The man lets loose with another howl.
"ISIS is the goddess of the underworld," he cries."The
cat ruler who reigns supreme."
Now Andy is really confused. After the time he spent in L.A., he's pretty sure Michelle Pfeiffer was Cat Woman, but maybe someone else snagged the role in the sequel? Either way, he opts for diplomacy, always a good choice with some nut case who's now licking the sidewalk.
"Maybe you wanna lighten
up on the wacko behavior, pal. Wouldn't wanna have to take you
down to the lock-up. Spend Saturday night in one of those cells
and they'll make you Bachelor #3, if you get my drift."
The man pauses, mid-lick.
"I can't help it," he whimpers. "It's the voices.
Isis sends me messages, directing me from her dark lair. Can't
you hear them? Right there, coming out of the sewer cover?"
"There's your problem,"
Andy tells him. "What you need to do is take yourself down
to the bus station. They got special filters there that block
all underworld transmissions. Works like a charm!"
He further directs the man to line his kibble bowl with aluminum
foil, just to be on the safe side. And hops back into our squad
car to give me what's no longer a veiled threat.
"Broken legs for you
or coffee for me," he says. "Your choice."
Since partners take care of each other, I head in the direction
of the nearest coffee shop. But that's until we spot those people
behind the tree.
P.O.V. MURCIA
Dammit! There she goes again, driving like a maniac!
On this street, it's mostly prostitutes, the 'He-She’s'
in drag, who got their 'I ain’t got no place special to
go' walk on, and horny boys from the north shore suburbs looking
to score anything. But somehow, my partner spots them behind
a tree. The guy's in a business suit, way too far from the Loop's
Hilton Convention Center to be sightseeing. He's with some tall,
thin, drag queen in the latest Afro-jazz ensemble, falling in
lust or buying some dope. Either way, my partner thinks we should
investigate. The Queen has one hand in Mr Biz man's back pocket
but the other one is a bit harder to see--is it weapons, drugs
or just a practiced pickpocket? Gallo makes the squad car do
jumping tricks as she takes the curb. I'm braced for it--but
not nearly enough--as the squad's tires roll over something bulky
wrapped in a dark blanket. I smash my head on the roof and swear
enough to blister the squad car's paint and send the business
geek and his friend running. Now all we have to do is figure
out just what the hell we left our tire tracks on.
With Gallo jumping on the
brake pedal, I have my foot on the dash to keep from flying through
the windsheild. The squad comes to a sudden stop with its hood
in the bushes, maybe an inch from the tree. I clear the branch
and leaves away so I can crawl out my side window. I’m shaken
but alive and wondering: Will I live to see my first pension
check?
Gallo’s out before me, beaming her flashlight on the blanket.
Oh God! There’s a body under there but good news is, it’s
starting to move. It's one of the local winos and he’s waking
up, trying to come through the booze blitz that planted him on
the lawn in the first place. His eyes open, he stares but no
vocal yet. I raise my voice, just to make sure he hears me through
his fog.
"Man, did you see that car that hit you?"
“Huh? Ain’t no car hit me. I be sleepin', man." The wino focuses half--mast eyes. "Is you crazy?"
My partner is pulling on her rubber gloves. Past experience has taught us that anything can happen, and usually does, and she wants to make sure we didn't just make this guy's legs detachable. Gripping the edge of the blanket, we unwrap him like a cheap cigar. We get him standing up and finally walking--enough to show us he's fully functional, especially since he's just taken an unscheduled rest stop. Our tires must've rolled over his gut so rapidly, it cleaned him out faster than a prune juice margarita! And while the stench clears our sinuses, the wino snatches the pint bottle out of his pocket, takes a restorative swig, and lurches off to a quieter part of the park, away from maniacs like us.
P.O.V. GALLO
Talk about a lucky break! I can't believe the guy's not hurt. A good thing for us, since explaining squad car-induced road kill to our watch commander can be tricky business. Time to get out of here and, finally, get my partner his coffee. He's already making that ferocious mug of his--the one his wife warned me about that means he's inches away from total meltdown. There's a Starbuck's just a couple blocks from here, and after what we've just smelled, I hope they sell air-fresheners, too. If not, I'd be willing to string a few aromatic coffee beans inside the car's interior like organic dingle balls. An interesting concept, now that I think of it. Might prevent Andy from going into coffee withdrawal every 15 minutes.
I head north on State Street,
just past Goethe. A Starbuck's looms ahead and already Andy's
expression is changing. It's relief, followed by a big smile....that
turns into a snarl when the dispatcher gives us another job.
"Disturbance with the cab driver, Rush and Oak."
I whip a U-turn and floor the gas. Any disturbance involving cab drivers usually means someone hasn't paid them. It's a quick dispute to settle, especially with my partner's current expression. I've seen Cossack death masks that looked more genial.
We find our cab driver--a terrified Sikh in boxer shorts, tied spread-eagled over his hood with rainbow bungee cords. His captors, a bunch of drunken college boys--have unwound his turban and are currently slathering his face with mounds of Barbasol, preparing to shave him.
"It's Bin Laden!"
one of them shouts. "I could tell by the beard! Officer,
I want to make a citizen's arrest!"
"Let's see what he thinks of American culture now, the goat-riding
bastard!" screams another. "See how tough he'll be
without his rat's-nest of a beard."
It takes less than a minute
to settle the dispute. The shaving cream, which reminds Andy
of a mocha latte's cream topping, is enough to tip him into a
fugue state. Seizing the bungee cords, he launches into a Midwestern
version of the Rodeo King, first lassoing and then tying the
college drunks into one wriggling mass. He plants them on the
corner of Oak Street where some bondage fetishists will be sure
to come to their rescue. And while the foaming Sikh hops in his
Checker and hits the bricks,
Andy utters one last guttural plea.
"Coffee!" he moans. "NOW! I mean it!"
Who can resist a man who begs? At warp speed, I navigate the last half mile, screeching up to Starbuck's door. My partner's out of the door, running....and bumps directly into the heaving bosom of a gray-haired matron who's a dead ringer for Mayberry's 'Aunt Bea.'
P.O.V. MURCIA
Since it’s a dead heat for us both to get in the
door, I gallantly step aside and hold the door for the lady.
“Please, you first, Babe.”
This purple haired senior flashes her baby blues at me--or maybe it's just the reflection of light in her tri-focals, and says, “Why thank you, Officer. I love a man in uniform."
But she doesn’t move. The smell of coffee is irresistible, but I got this old doll standing between paradise and me. She’s standing much too close to me, and my hand automatically starts to rest on my Colt .357, which means I've assumed my John Wayne pose.
She nods to the cluster of four, maybe five other older ladies huddled near one of the hanging ferns.
“I wonder if you could help us. We're visiting Chicago from Weehawken, New Jersey, here on a convention, and somehow, we took a wrong turn and lost our hotel." She coyly flutters her hankerchief in my face, one that reeks of lavender and talcum powder. "I’m sorry to say, I’m a bit disoriented, especially since my fourth husband died.”
Her travel buddies in the corner nod sympathetically. While one of them discreetly hitches up her support hose, another says, "He's a cute one, Edna. Maybe he can give us a police escort?"
Edna seems to like the
idea. She smacks lips pinkened by just the faintest smear of
Pepto-Bismol, and dimples again.
"Forgive my friend for being forward," she says. "But,
...well, a big city can be quite intimidating for a group of
small town girls like us."
Girls? These babes haven't been girls since the Truman administration, but who am I to argue? Everybody needs a fantasy. In the interest of cordial police relations, I allow Edna to lead me back to a corner table, to meet her friends, I assume. Wrong assumption.
While one hefty mama shoves me into a seat, another whips off her jacket to display her "I love Chicago" necklace, which just so happens to be buried in cleavage as deep as a California fault line. While I consider the engineering feat it must have taken to make that brassiere, a third woman shakes her flower-covered rump. Wonder what the guys in the station will think when they hear I met my first octogenarian lap dancer? Word's going to spread for sure, expecially since my damn partner is standing in the doorway, laughing her head off.
Somehow, my police hat
has made its way to Edna's head, where it's perched at a flirty
angle. She tells me they're all card-carrying members of the
Women's Empowerment Committee, some radical senior splinter group
that believes 80 is only 'middle aged.' Although I never met
anyone who was 160 years old, I like her thought. One of the
other women says her new One-a-Day Senior supplements are amazing;
she's up to 45 minutes a day with her Billy Blanks Tae Bo tapes,
the max amount of time before her Depends start chafing. All
the while they're playing with my hair, stroking my legs, surrounding
me with hot lavender-scented breath and warm wrinkled flesh.
This would be a dream come true with younger women or an older
man. I feel like I died and woke up on "Gilligan's Island:
The Senior Edition."
And when the hell is my partner going to bail me out?
I’ve had enough. Edna's
getting closer, somebody's paw has made its way to a personal
area where the sun doesn't shine, and if things continue, I may
be the victim of an assault with a deadly denture. It's time
to ask my best relationship-ending question, one that never failed
me before with anyone who had any sense left. I lean closer to
Edna and whisper, “Can you do the 'standing up in a hammock'
trick?”
Behind her thick glasses, the old lady's eyes dilate. Shock?
Revulsion? Perfect! Now maybe I can escape their clutches and--
"Yes, I can!" Edna shouts. "Girls, we got us a
live one! Load him up, and let's get the hell back to the hotel
room!"
There's nothing I can do. I've exhausted all options and my partner is still laughing. But maybe she's ready to help now, since she's advancing toward our table with a tray of custard muffins. Is Gallo going to bean these lusty dusties with the serving tray?
P.O.V. GALLO
Poor Andy. All those years of street experience and he still doesn't know how to turn off some amorous seniors' advances. Just a simple matter of diversionary tactics and planting a few mental cues. Even the geriatric crowd understands that one in the hand is not as good as a few in the bush. I slide the tray of muffins toward the frenzied ladies.
"Listen up, girls! Free eats for everyone, compliments of Akbar, the pastry chef." I point to the smiling Akbar behind the counter, who, luckily, doesn't understand English. "He says he's never seen such lovely women. and invites you all to join him and his admiring friends for a romantic interlude back at his Casbah."
Okay, so maybe 'casbah' is laying it on just a little thick, but it works. All blue-haired heads swivel immediately in the direction of Akbar, the surly dishwasher behind him, and the two lanky counter boys serving up Frappacinos. One of them has a soda siphon in his hand that's spurting furiously into a glass. It's almost enough to trigger cardiac arrhythmias in the lusty Edna.
"I love a man who
knows how to handle a hose!" she purrs. "Let's go,
girls! I got dibs on the mustached one!"
While they stampede toward the counter, Andy makes his escape.
This 'senior moment' has left him so traumatized he doesn't even
stop for his coffee. Beating feet out the door, he barely stops
to suck up some lavender-free air before diving toward the safety
of the squad car.
Nobody ever said being a cop was easy. And because everyone deserves a break sometime, I stop and get him a double latte, fat free, and one of those custard muffins the 'girls' abandoned on their way to Akbar. Maybe I'll even toss in some Tylenol, and tell him it'll ease his pain over their rejection. Then again, maybe not. He hasn't had his coffee yet and he's still got a gun. Some people just can't take a joke.
© 2002 by Andy Murcia
and Gina Gallo. The illustration © 2002 by Jim Hummel.
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Now you know why the Chicago P.D. never teamed these two. And, by the way, Gallo is not as scrawny as our artist portrays her and Murcia still has a full head of hair, which just proves Jim Hummel still has a vivid imagination, too! |
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