The ice in the drinks couldn’t have even started to melt before she asked if I had ever broken the law while on duty. Had I said no, she would have dismissed me as a liar; every officer she had already asked was. When I pondered the question and confessed I had, I saw her hand come off of her glass of wine. When I further confessed that it had been haunting me for nearly ten years, I could see her fingers grasping a ghost pen, or I should say attempting to.
I shifted uneasily in my chair and looked around for the waiter, as if I could only go further with the assistance of more alcohol. Not wanting to lose the moment, she snapped her fingers on both hands over her head, which not only attracted the waiter but also got the attention of everyone else in snapping range.
Now, when a reporter asks you out, you bet your headline the motive, no matter how big your ego, is not about some powerful attraction she just can’t help but sate. No, when a reporter shows interest, it’s more about getting your x-ray than getting into your pants. This ”date” was supposed to be an apology for an offensive article she wrote about the department a week before. She had grilled the Chief on the air about it. When that didn’t work, I suddenly became her Adonis and found myself being asked to dinner. And if dinner didn’t work, apparently she had the reputation of using another “skill” that involved sheets. Yeah, that would happen when the Post Office announced an Idi Amin stamp!
The waiter, who nearly ran across the room, now stood frozen, waiting (as waiters do). I looked up with a timid smile and ordered a double shot of Maker’s Mark. I glanced over at the blonde sitting across from me; she shook her head and pointed to her only-single-sipped glass of red wine.
I looked over at two faux-compassionate blue eyes and tilted head, and had to use every cell in my body not to burst into laughter or, worse, spray a drink across the table that would have resulted in an assault charge or lawsuit.
“Okay, we can start with that if you’d like, but swear to me this is off the record. It could ruin me.”
Her head shot straight up as her eyes widened. “I swear!”
At that moment all I could see was Clinton saying, “I never had sex with that woman,” but I continued, after taking a false exhale of relief.
I worried about being out-clevered (new word). This dinner was not going to be on me. It was agreed that “the steaks are on her” would precede everything. We examined the menu, and while I was confused about what to order, I guess the furrowed brow she picked up made her say once again, “I mean it, this will be just between you and me.” I nodded at the two orbs just above the top of her menu and ordered a rib-eye (medium), potato (with just butter), and any vegetable (‘cause I was going to ignore the vegetable anyway). I sipped my drink and gave Medusa a weak, pathetic smile.
“It all started in the shower. I’d had enough! I was desperate and I knew it.” (I sipped, paused, peeked, and continued.) “Now, I confess, it had been bothering me forever, and I finally decided to do something about it.” She nodded in false commiseration.
I figured the salads would be a good time to break it to her that it’s not polite to talk and chew. She reluctantly agreed and told me she could tell this “thing” was clearly a burden, and she really appreciated my candor and valued my trust. I nodded and played with my croutons, sipped, and continued when the salads were cleared.
“Okay, I knew for a fact that a certain officer’s brother worked at Menlo Hardware. I also knew if my plan was going to work, I needed to go in the store in uniform.” I shook my head and took another sip.
“I decided to go in during lunch hour, and when I was on my downtown beat patrol, on foot. I entered the store and asked for Smith. I’m not going to give up his name. Smith was paged and came out from the back. I stared at him for a good five seconds to convey the gravity of my presence. ‘My shower water is so weak, I have to run around in it to get wet. I don’t like running in the shower—it’s dangerous. I want a shower head that will knock me over if I’m not prepared.’ I held up my hand to halt any quick reply; I knew what he was going to say. ‘I want to feel what it is like to be hit by a Saharan sand storm; do you understand, Smith?’
“He nodded, squinted, and said he might have one left. He said, ‘But, but they’re against the law—we had to replace them all with the limited …’
“I interrupted, ‘Except for the one, the one you have back there, the one you may have?’ I pointed to the back of the store. I stared back at the storeroom entrance, back where gushers live, geysers were trained, constant artificial cloudbursts resided.
“’They’re against the law,’ he pleaded.”
Blondie began nodding her head, her disgust with me forming on her face with each word. But this part was the truest, I told her: “But wait—there’s more!”
“I took a step closer to Smith and gently tapped my badge saying, ‘I am the law!’ I jutted my chin towards the storeroom and Smith rushed to it. He returned with a small paper bag. I could tell his mouth was dry and he was having trouble swallowing. I took the bag and, for Smith’s sake, I said aloud, looking into his panicked face, ‘I take this evidence in the name of the state of California. And Smith, you realize of course you’ve been in possession of this evidence and that’s a crime.’ His eyes opened wide and I quickly put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘I know your brother—he’s a good cop. I don’t want him to be embarrassed or you to have to pay consequences. So we won’t say another word.’ When he began, I stopped him and said, ‘No need to thank me—remember, not another word!’”
When the waiter brought the steaks, she told him she had decided to have hers to go. She clearly had to keep her cool. After all, she had been recognized by the other restaurant guests the minute we were seated. The waiter brought the carton. She bent over, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Fuck you, Officer Raggio,” and strolled out in her best runway walk.
What I didn’t get to tell her was that when I got home that day, I removed my 20th shower head and opened the paper bag to a rather plain-looking spigot. My shoulders fell in disappointment and I attached it with no expectations. When I turned on the water, I’m sure music filled the bathroom. The flow struck the floor of the tub with a force that splashed over the edge onto my pants. I lit a cigarette. This eighth wonder of the world has followed all my showers since! It still produces a prodigious blast. I shall bequeath it!
It wasn’t until I finished my steak that I realized I had to buy hers too. Lawyers, reporters (not all in both cases) are way, way down the food chain. To this day, I believe 10% of what they say on TV, because the remaining 90% is about motive, and the motive is ratings and readership. Every now and then we get to strike back—silently, of course. And the reporter? Well, every time I see her now she begins to even out her lipstick … with her middle finger.
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