Ethel's Day at Work

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I’m being followed by a man with a knife!” quivered Ethel as she held her Nokia to her ear. Her grandson Jake tried to show her once how to use a smartphone, but she insisted that the upgrade was an unnecessary encumbrance.

“Ma’am, I need you to stay calm and tell me where you are,” said the operator in a direct but calm voice.

Ethel looked around, then stuttered, “I’m at work. I work at Jolene’s at the Westwind Mall.”

“We’re sending units over to your location.” He entered the details into the computer in front of him as he tried to gather more information. “Can you describe what the man is wearing?”

“He’s wearing a red hoodie,” she stammered, her tone wary. She continued in a whisper, “I see him now; he’s coming over—”

“Ma’am? Are you still with me?” tried the operator. The call was cut short.

Unit 16 was just making a turn onto Columbus Street as they got the dispatch. The officer at the wheel, a man in his mid-fourties, turned on the sirens and signaled right as the one next to him spoke into the radio, “16 copy, en route.” The second officer was a younger woman with her hair put up in a tightly-wound bun.

Two minutes later, as they were circling in on the location, they spotted a man dressed in red with his hood up over his head strolling out of a little alley containing nothing but a few dumpsters and the backdoor of the mall’s food court. “16, possible match in sight. Approaching to investigate,” reported the cop from the passenger’s seat. “Sir, police. Stop right there. We need to ask you a few questions,” she commanded through the vehicle loudspeaker.

The hooded figure looked back, saw the police car, and broke into a sprint. The primary officer jumped out of the door and started dashing after him while radioing in, “16, foot pursuit headed north.” The second officer pulled the car forward to meet the man before the next turn. They had him cornered—he had nowhere to go.

“Unit 16, subject detained,” said the officer on foot. “Sir, keep your hands where I can see them.” The man immediately obeyed. “Step over here and place your hands on the vehicle. I’m going to pat you down for weapons.”

She felt something sharp in his front right pocket. She reached in and pulled out a set of keys and a small orange pillbox. After finishing the frisk, she placed her handcuffs on the man’s red sleeves. “There’s no knife,” she told her partner, then added, “just a few Xanax pills.” She held up the contents of his pocket to her partner.

“Knife? What knife?” puzzled the man.

“Why were you following her?” asked the driver.

“What? Following who?”

“Alright, buddy, if you weren’t following her with a knife, why were you running?” she asked.

“Let me see those pills,” said the driver. He inspected the white tablets in the container. “I’ve seen these before. Just last week. These are some of those fentanyl pills disguised as prescription meds that keep popping up.”

The primary radioed in, “16, subject negative on original call, but in custody for unrelated charges.” Turning back to him, she said, “Sir, you’re under arrest for the possession of unlawful substances.”

The man started looking around frantically. “Come on, it’s just three pills!” he blurted in distress. “I never do this; it was just a one time thing! I wasn’t even sure I was going to use them!”

“It’s my duty to tell you that you have the right to remain silent.”

“What if I tell you who sold it to me? Could you let me go then? I’ve seen American Gangster; it worked for Jimmy, and he shot the girl!” the man said in a frenzy. “My dealer was driving a silver Honda Civic, but one of the older models. It looked like it was at least 20 years old. Oh, and he had a piercing! On his eyebrow!”

“Wish it worked that way, but we have to get you to the station for processing,” said the cop as she guided him into the back seat. He was tall—she had to tuck his head in to avoid bumping it on the SUV door, and even then, his hair brushed the rim.

“I’ll do whatever you need—I can wear a wire, I don’t mind!”

“You can discuss your options with your lawyer, which I highly recommend you get.”

…

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a silver Civic rolled to a stop by the curb of a quiet street. A young man got out, locked the car, and walked up to the entrance of a modest single-story house.

He reached the door and turned the key. “Hey, Grandma,” he said. Ethel stared at him blankly as a tiny smile formed on her face. She felt like she knew him, but she couldn’t quite place his identity. After a few seconds, he helped her out. “It’s Jake, I’m your grandson. I’m Michael’s son. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. But Jake wasn’t sure how true this was. Her mental health was deteriorating more and more every visit, but she was still rejecting her diagnosis and couldn’t admit when she forgot something (or someone) important.

“You’re so big now.” she said. That settled his doubts. She did know who he was. He was already 24—way past the age to still be growing—but his grandma was losing the later years of her memory. In her mind, her grandson Jake was still in middle school. “You have a piercing now!” she added, studying him more closely. “Why would you do that to your face? It makes you look like a criminal!”

“I’ve had it for five years now, Grandma. I like how it looks,” he told her with a gentle smile.

He yelled across the house, “Angelo, it’s Jake.” A short man in his thirties wearing a red pullover came into the room drying his hands with a kitchen towel and took one headphone out of his ear.

“Hi, how are you?” he said politely. “I’m just making her lunch; it’ll be ready in about 15 minutes. If you want, there’s still some cake left over from the dinner on Saturday,” he said, pointing to the dessert placed on a cutting board on the nearby dinner table. “I can cut you a piece.”

Ethel’s eyes widened as she looked over at her caretaker. “He’s back! He won’t stop following me!” she said, frightened.

Jake eyed Angelo, a bit uncomfortable, and started explaining to Ethel, “Grandma, this is Angelo. He’s here to take care of you. He’s not following you—he lives here.”

“I work here; I would know if there was someone living here. I want to go home. Take me home, Jake,” she pleaded.

“This is your home, Grandma.” Take a look around—this is your living room, you’re sitting on your favorite couch. There’s your coffee table right there. You see?” he pointed. “There’s even the framed picture of you and Grandpa on your wedding day.”

She shook her head. “This isn’t my home. Take me home, Jake. Take me home.”