Chattanooga Pulse

My night began as innocently as any other with my grabbing a Styrofoam cup from behind a display rack in which to pour a complimentary cup of old, burned coffee—and that was it.  That was exactly how long my night lasted before it went to what sailors and cop-rologists would call “shit”.  (Google it sometime; it’s a strong word.)

You see, the cups were next to the creamers and the creamers were necessary to take the edge off of what should be coffee, but like a politician’s good intentions, mostly wound up poorly planned and misspent crap.  I reached up to make my choice for the night (I was leaning towards cinnamon hazelnut, actually) when my hand froze in space:  The top tier of the creamer rack was filled with Pumpkin Spice Coffee Creamers, and Pumpkin Spice Coffee Creamers meant Halloween.  I nearly vomited on the counter, and after the dry heaves subsided, I left without a word for the solace of my patrol car.  I never even filled my cup.

Let me explain.  To the average person, Halloween is a fairly innocuous holiday for children that leads to an overabundance of tiny plastic outfits, sugar comas, and a great deal of toilet paper being lodged in trees.  At worst, it leads to the thick smoke of burning tires from roadway drainage tunnels or someone’s decision to get wildly intoxicated at a bar while wearing a one-inch-thick mummy costume and lapsing into hyperthermia, but for cops?  It’s not just the one night.  It’s a whole freakin’ month of people running around with “Scream” masks robbing and stabbing the shit out of people in general.  Now, don’t get me wrong:  Who doesn’t love a good stabbing now and then?  But a whole month of them?  No, thank you, buddy.

It’s like open season for anonymous crimes all month, and not even good ones.  Does anyone remember the guy in the “Spiderman” mask last year who went on a string of ten convenience store and hotel robberies?  Halloween mask.

The worst car pursuit of my career?  On the one night of the year that sanctifies little baby chirruns being led everywhere after dark with obstructed vision and irritated parents:  Halloween.  Only the Fourth of July rivals it in annoyance for police, but that’s only because of the inordinate amount of humorless and obnoxious people calling in to complain about people shooting fireworks on the Fourth of July, of all shocking things. (It’s off topic, but I firmly believe those 911 callers should be subjected to a quick but painful electric shock for making such a phone call.  I mean, complaining about fireworks in general on Independence Day?  Why don’t we just kick Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny square in the crotch, you bitter and cheerless flag-burning assholes?)

Even off-duty it’s an issue.  My girlfriend asked me to take her to a haunted house one year and I thought, “I’m a great and sensitive guy; sure, I’ll take her.”  What could be better for our relationship than waiting a few hours in a freezing cold line of people who would otherwise be at a monster truck rally that ends with spending $60 dollars on two tickets to enter a barn filled with fake smoke and folks jumping out at you wearing face paint?  I knew this going into it, but while I thought far enough ahead to chew a few leftover Vicodin to ease my patience a bit, I didn’t think far enough ahead to remember that I’d spent the last eight or 12 years being trained to attack people that jumped out at me, with or without face paint.

So there I was, surrounded in darkness, forcing myself every 45 to 60 seconds not to lunge forward and choke the shit out of all these people coming at me from behind corners and fake coffins, violating years of instincts and muscle memory, and ultimately starting to freak out fairly badly because I was also instinctually defending my girlfriend from threats I perceived during working hours that usually ended badly for other folks in real life.
I left the place in a fine sweat and with gritted teeth I had to pass off as a “tired smile”.

Ah, yes, “October.”  I am aware that it will eventually pass, but so do kidney stones, folks.  Who am I to be a party-pooper though?  Trick or Treat, beloved readers.

Next year maybe we can show you what’s under Officer Teach’s mask?  I’ll bring the gloves…you bring the gauze.

The coffee, of course, is always on the house.

When officer Alexander D. Teach is not patrolling our fair city on the heels of the criminal element, he is an occasional student at UTC, an up and coming carpenter, auto mechanic, prominent boating enthusiast, and spends his spare time volunteering for the Boehm Birth Defects Center.