Looking out at the marina, my only thought between swigs of Pepto Bismol and Jim Beam cocktails is “what the hell happened?” Just this morning I was a loving husband and father. I only wanted to get a better sense of law enforcement relations and accountability in our community, so I went on one police ride-along. How did I end up here- divorced and living on a boat?
It all started before I even left the house. My wife asked why I never see our son anymore and I couldn’t help but blurt out, “A roof over his head isn’t enough? You ain’t seen what I seen!” None of this made sense- I’m a stay-at-home dad.
I slammed the front door and got into the police cruiser waiting outside. Before the officer could introduce himself, I said, “Rule number one is shut the fuck up and drive. I know the precinct put us together, but I work alone. Besides, you could never even dream of replacing McGinty.” When the officer asked who McGinty was, I grabbed him by the collar and screamed, “DON’T YOU EVEN SAY HIS NAME, MOTHERFUCKER,” causing us to swerve into an oncoming car.
I knew Internal Affairs would have me riding a desk for the rest of the day over something like this, so I cuffed the other driver and told my partner, “I’ll hold him if you want to get some shots in,” and he obliged with a few solid gut punches.
I had barely planted the drugs when a call came in from the chief, who said a deal was going down at the abandoned warehouse near the Amazon fulfillment center, and even though I’m a reckless cowboy and a danger to society, if I pulled this off, he would nod and say, “I like your style.”
We lit up the roof and headed for the meet. Outside, I told officer what’s-his-fuck to wait for backup and kicked open the warehouse door. Right there, stabbing a switchblade into a fresh bag of China white, was the last person I ever expected to be a drug kingpin: my wife. A henchman handed me divorce papers and said, “You’ve been served. And by the way, I’m also her scummy defense attorney and I’ll have her back on the streets in no time unless you resort to vigilante justice.” Just then, my partner, who I respect now, crashed through the wall driving a cement truck, which he then unloaded on my bride not-to-be, saying, “That’s what I call ‘hard time.’”
We had barely high fived when my adolescent son Todd grabbed the heroin and ran outside to a waiting fan boat. My partner and I commandeered a passing speedboat and gave chase. Dodging my son’s machine gun spray, I had no choice but to let my partner take the wheel so I could fire off a couple shots, one of which must have struck the gas tank, engulfing the entire fan boat in flames. “That’s what I call a hot Toddy,” my partner quipped.
The officer pulled into the marina, explaining that, since the ride-along was technically my last day before retirement, this is where I live now, and that, because of some crazy loophole, his new partner would be a dog who witnessed a murder. We high fived goodbye and he sped away.
It won’t be easy adjusting to dock life, but the other cops have been really nice, bringing me boat-warming presents and explaining the community guidelines. I’d better pour another Pink Russian and head below deck- yearning hours are almost over.
Sure, in my one day on the force I probably murdered my wife and definitely my son, but it’s true what they say- policing is a hard job and the only thing separating civilization and chaos is a thin blue line. Anyway, I may have lost one family, but I’ve already gained another, a family I can count on no matter what: white drunk cops.