Bad Boyz, Bad Boyz, Whacha Gonna Do
We had some excitement at the Place of My Employment yesterday; a member of our fine constabulary came into the building and recommended that we go into lockdown whilst he and his colleagues search the immediate vicinity for a fugitive.
And, yes, those are the words that he used; colleagues, lockdown, vicinity, fugitive. So. Exciting!
So, we locked the doors like the good citizens that we are. Then, we climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing where, by virtue of a large picture window, we were able to watch as fifteen members of our police department surrounded a house with their weapons drawn.
Apparently, the search was over and we were now looking at a stand-off between law enforcement and The Fugitive. So, not knowing how long the siege would last and, not being able to go anywhere on account of the whole being in lockdown thing (not to mention the fact that our cars were all blocked into the parking lot by various police cruisers and support vehicles), we did what any reasonable human beings would do; we pulled up some comfy chairs, popped a bag of popcorn and settled in for the show.
Television makes this kind of thing look so glamorous and, you know, dramatic! But, by virtue of being married to Hugh for all these years (fourteen next Tuesday!); I know better. And, now, so do my co-workers; watching the officers stand stock-still holding assault rifles for half an hour while the negotiator tried to talk the guy out of the house got a bit dull, is what I'm saying.
Finally, however, there was some movement around the house in response to which, the officers quickly formed a single-file line and, after some jostling for position, prepared to storm the front door.
Co-Worker I: Oh, oh! Here they go! They’re lining up! Ok, wait! They’re shuffling around! Ok, here they go! No, wait! More shuffling around! God! What is the holdup?!
Co-Worker II: Maybe no one wants to be in front when they break the door down. There is a potentially dangerous fugitive in there, you know.
Co-Worker I: Oh, yeah. So, how do they decide who goes first? (Looking to me for the answer since sleeping with a cop makes me the expert on all matters relating to law enforcement, apparently.)
Chelle: Well, they’ve all been through hours of rigorous tactical training in preparation for just this type of situation.
Co-Worker II: Right! So, what do they do?
Chelle: Rock, Paper, Scissors. Loser goes in first.
Co-Workers I and II: Oh.
Like candy from a baby, people.
Co-Worker I: OH! THERE THEY GO!
And, they did. They kicked the door down and went inside the house and, a half hour and another bag of popcorn later; they brought the guy out, loaded him into a squad car and escorted his ass to jail.
One of the officers, who also happens to have been a groomsman in our wedding (fourteen years ago next Tuesday!), gave us the thumbs-up to unlock the door and our day went back to business as usual.
Now, don’t you think it says a lot about our community and, specifically about our faith in our police officers that we felt safe enough to enjoy a snack during a fugitive stand-off? Yes, yes, it does.
Also, how pathetically boring it must be when something like a police stand-off with a fugitive rates right up there with a new movie release as high entertainment? Yes.
Eh. Either way, it was one less hour that I had to spend at my desk.