V-1, W-1, DV-1

Last night and into the early morning hours of Sunday, I had the fantastic opportunity to ride along during a midnight shift with a Metropolitan police officer. I signed my waiver, stating that if anything happened to me during the ride, they were not going to be responsible. I was up for the adrenaline rush.

During the time I had to wait for my officer's shift to begin around 9:30pm (we'll call him Vee), I sat in the waiting room of the police department. People filtered in and out, some to retrieve lost property, some to report a burglary, and still others to pick up their personal items from the early morning when they were released from lock up. My favorite story, however, turned out to be the girl's sitting a few seats away from me.

She was facing away from me, her body turned toward the window. She eventually caught me looking at her. I wasn't staring, just exhibiting a healthy curiosity. Both of her cheeks were pierced, metallic dimples. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she said she wished the taxi would come soon, her ride home was going to be a long one. So, I bit. I asked a single question that ended up transporting me into this girl's life, what would essentially turn into a long, eye-opening conversation. Where was home?

She was from Philly, she and her boyfriend had arrived in DC on Wednesday to sight-see for a few days. They drove her car. They fell asleep on Wednesday night, and she woke up Thursday morning to a pair of scissors stabbing her arms, neck, legs. The boyfriend, after stabbing her, took all of her clothes, money, and car, and left her stranded, bleeding.

She spent two days in the hospital handcuffed to the bed, awaiting statements and official reports. They needed both sides of the story. She then relayed to me that she was 3 months pregnant. My eyes must have bugged out of my head. This girl was thin, and I could barely see a bulge. His baby, I asked. Yes, his first.

The way she stated her answer must have seemed odd, because she said she had a 2 year old and 9 year old back in Philly. She asked how old I was, and I said 24. She was 24, too. I did the math, but not quick enough, because then she described being molested at 15 by a man who was into drugs.

I asked if she had eaten anything, and she said no, that all they'd been giving her at the hospital was an IV. She and I walked to Taco Bell, and I told her to get as much as she wanted - she needed to be taken care of. We ate in front of the police station, two strangers with two very different lives. When her taxi came, we exchanged a few hugs. She told the police officer that even though she had no family or friends to go back to in Philly, she had found a friend in DC.

I watched her cab pull away and my heart went out to this girl, and to the girls like her who don't know how to escape a bad situation. To those who have no family to go back to or friends to help them through a life-altering escapade. To those who can't even find a kind-hearted stranger.

My patrol was starting, and Officer Vee came to collect me from my thoughts. Ready for some action tonight, girl? I said absolutely, though I felt like I had just witnessed my fair share of action for the night. We climbed into his SUV and immediately, we got assigned to a domestic violence call.

Welcome to the ghetto, girl, where all hell breaks loose all of the time. He told me that this particular case we were assigned to is a bunch of repeat callers. Every weekend, they call about someone getting drunk or high, being loud, and causing fights. I expected a bunch of frat boy college students. Instead, we pulled up to a run down apartment complex. A man in his forties was leaning against the entrance railway. Officer, he slurred. Officer, she hit me right here. He pointed a lazy finger to his nose. Vee took out his flashlight and waved it in the man's face. There was a deep cut above the man's left eyebrow, nothing on his nose.

This began a 25 minute stint of Vee explaining to the man that he wouldn't have to call the police every weekend if he would simply evict the two women from his apartment. Woman 1 is the man's mentally unstable wife. Woman 2 is Woman 1's aunt. Woman 2 could not stand the fact that Woman 1 and the man would consistently get drunk, smoke weed, and become belligerent human beings every weekend.

The moment Vee and I walked away, and I had my handle on the door of the SUV, Woman 2 sticks her head out of the top floor window and screams bloody murder. "He's going to kill us, he's not right, lock him up, he'll murder us all, bastard police officers!"

Vee looked at me and asked if I was ready to get some action. I followed him upstairs and into these people's apartment. Bottles lay empty in the corners of the room. Bunny slippers sit by a well-loved chair. A Bible sat dusty on the cluttered coffee table. Woman 2 is in a rage, pacing across the living room, pointing and screaming at a closed door. The door, I notice, does not have a doorknob.

Man and Woman 1 are behind the door, apparently unable to come out. Vee counts to five before he kicks the door down - it takes two tries, and the door flies off its hinges and onto the floor. Woman 1 yelps. I glimpse the truly destitute welfare of a person who is lacking - I don't know what she's lacking, but something is very wrong. What appears to be powder covers her arms, which she rubs continuously.

Vee handcuffs the man and forces him into a chair. He falls onto a stuffed animal. Essentially, after the man is questioned about the cut on his head one more time, Vee makes an executive decision- he takes the handcuffs off the man and walks over to Woman 2, who looks like she's going to scratch Vee with her obscenely long nails. He pats her down and arrests her.

While she is being put into the SUV and the ambulance shows up to assess the man's cut, I hold the common door to the building open. A neighbor opens her door and peers at me. She's eating a chicken wing. "Is [Woman 1] okay?"

"Yes," I say. "She'll be okay." I do not know this, but it seems like the right thing to say.

"You with them?" She points upstairs.

"No, I'm with the police."

The woman squints at me. "You a detective?"

I assess the situation, and "yes" comes flying out of my mouth. Why not?

She nods and throws a bone over my head and into the bushes. She magically produces another and starts chowing down.

I am Detective Kramer, hear me roar. I play the part. "So, how long have you lived here?"

She peeks her head out of the door to stare at Vee, who is walking in our direction. "They just moved me here 3 months ago from a safehouse, but you know, I don't feel very safe here. So much yelling."

Vee pulled me away before I could ask her for a chicken wing. Detective or not, I was getting hungry.

The rest of the night is a blur. Woman 2 gets booked and locked away until Monday morning, where she will be transported to the courthouse. I learn the intricacies of paperwork and writing official police reports. We screech the wailing siren and speed down city streets at 90 miles an hour. We stop for a few more domestic violence calls. I watch as Vee translates in Spanish to two men who are so inebriated they have no function over their motor skills. We raid a few club parking lots, pat down a few sweaty teenagers, eye-up the prostitutes on the corner gas stations.

I finally arrived back to the Castle around 3am. I shake hands with this officer who has taught me so much in just a few short hours. I collect his business card. I bid my goodnight to all of the craziness that I just witnessed. A goodnight to all of those lives that are touched by things like domestic violence. A goodnight to paperwork and fingerprinting and the average Saturday night of a DC police officer.

And I think once more of the girl who may or may not be back in Philly. I bid her a better life ahead. 

a prayer

Disturb us, Lord, when we are too well-pleased with ourselves,
when our dreams have come true because we have dreamed too little,
and when we have arrived safely because we have sailed too close to the shore.

 - Sir Francis Drake

power outage fun

In the last month, we've had approximately 4.5 power outages for no apparent reason. Most of them have occurred while we are all at work, and tend to extend into the evening until all we can see are the headlights outside.

And when power outages occur, all sixteen of us are in a FOUL MOOD.

Last night was one of those nights when the power would have been more welcome than a day off from work. Honestly. If it were not for the wine and melting ice cream cake, we would have bitten each other's heads off. And we would have enjoyed it.

Unfortunately, my forensic science class began yesterday and the reading is going to be excruciatingly intense. I got home from work, ran up the four flights of stairs to my room, and opened my door thinking I could get started on the reading, only to find out that my room was no longer a room, it was a sauna in the Sahara. I coughed in the heat, quickly shut my blinds to the sun's kisses, practically got naked, and moseyed downstairs to the kitchen with my textbooks.

What does a sane person decide to have for dinner in the midst of a power outage? A grilled cheese and tomato soup, of course. Who wouldn't want a sweltering hot dinner in a sweltering hot house? I open the tomato soup, pour it in a pan, open the fridge (which is sacrilegious when there is no power, BTW) and grab my sweating milk to pour in the pan. THEN REALIZE OUR STOVE IS NOT WORKING.

Flustered that I just wasted my ONLY CAN OF DELICIOUS TOMATO SOUP, I scream up the stairs in a panic.

WHO WANTS PIZZA, YA'LL?

 The girls come running and I hand them the phone (because I don't make calls if I'm not bleeding or dying), and we order a large cheese for delivery.

I try to read in the dining room, but Amanda is trying to teach Lipy how to play Rummy, and Lipy keeps cheating because she doesn't particularly get the game, and laughter ensues, and no reading gets done. So I retreat to the living room and practically pass out on the couch from heat exhaustion. Then the girls follow and precede to talk about their awkward 8th grade sex-ed classes. I blurt out that I was the kid who had the Fetal-Alcohol Syndrome baby who shook and cried 24/7. Laura laughed and asked how I got it to quiet down. I shook it back, of course. I mean, honestly? WHAT WOULD YOU DO AS AN EIGHTH GRADER? It was either that, or throw it out the window.

An extremely long hour later, the pizza guy calls my phone. In a thick accent, I manage to grasp that he's basically outside of the castle. I walk out of the house with Lipy's money because everyone seems to be somewhere else, and by the time I reach the car, this Hispanic man swaggers over and looks me up and down.

"Having fun, are we?"

WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? I want to ask him. WE'RE BAKING IN A DESERT. DO I LOOK LIKE I'M HAVING FUN?

I take the pizza and he smirks from behind his sunglasses and I chuck the money in his hand and he stands there watching me walk up the walkway. It was at that point that I realized I was wearing my house slippers, the shortest pair of shorts I could find, and a white tank top...with a bright pink bra. BEFORE YOU JUDGE, HEATS DISTORTS MY JUDGMENT. Honestly, I was disgusted with myself. But not disgusted enough to go and change. Screw that.

I shoved three pieces of pizza down my throat because I'm starving at this point, and then go for the melted ice cream cake. At this point, it's starting to get dark. We sit in the living room, and I'm still trying to desperately read for school, which is absolutely ridiculous. It's too hot to light candles, although Lipy holds one in her hand like we're at a prayer vigil. LET THERE BE LIGHT.

Finally, Laura breaks out the two flashlights she has so we can try to be responsible human beings. She hands me the crank one. So I crank the handle for approximately 30 seconds and see 4 seconds of my text before the light goes out. DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO WORK FOR MY LIGHT, WOMAN?

Ha. She switched me after she saw me having trouble keeping the light. Something about cranking it for five minutes to get an hour of light....before I had to find out, she gave me a small little flashlight like police probably use in drunk drivers' eyes. Instead of reading, shadow puppets sounded like a fantastic idea. My alligator ate Lipy's ducks.

Six hours after the power went out, it finally came back on. We all screamed with delight. AND I MEAN SCREAMED. We ran into each other to try and get up to our rooms, charge our phones, feel the cool air streaming from our vents. It was a madhouse. And then we passed out on our beds, above the covers, barely able to stay awake past ten pm.

Or maybe that was just me. I like to think of last night as a roommate bonding session. We all got to express utter contempt for so many hot bodies in one house. It was fantastic.

adventure time

This Fourth of July weekend reminded me that beautiful things can happen when you least expect them. I had made plans with friends that I hadn't seen in a while, made some new friends along the way, and caught up with those that needed caught up with, which was fantastic. I removed myself from the castle for a few days, which was nice. It felt good to sleep on a friend's floor, to soak up the sun, to lounge in fields full of strangers who are just as eager to see the Capitol fireworks.

It felt great to be surrounded by familiarity in an unfamiliar place.

I needed to unwind, to forget, to remember.

On this beautiful Sunday, I job shopped, wrote some fiction, watched a movie. The perfect remedy to a weekend full of festivities. I can officially taste the freedom that comes with being single again. Everything is fair game: Alaska, Colorado, New York, everywhere. An abundance of adventure awaits.

A friend asked me tonight if I'd like to run away with her. As tempting as it was to say YES!, I replied with a pinch of logic and said no, because at this point in my life, I can't afford to run away - If I'm running, it'll be toward something.

Something shiny, and bright, and utterly worthwhile. No lies, or facades, or hesitation. All willingness, and excitement, and adventure. No holds, all in.

a little something sacred

My roommates and I mesh. Maybe it's a girl thing - I have missed having girl friends in close proximity for so long now that I have forgotten what it's like to have the camaraderie of fellow females. After work, we all congregate in the kitchen and talk about our days. Some sip wine, others chug milk, and still others hold their mugs of tea, content. We all talk with our hands, flailing and excited. Or maybe that's just me.

There is something sacred in female bonding. We cook together, taking into consideration everyone's eating habits. Some hate mushrooms, some hate onions. At night, we tip toe in each others room to talk about the things we forgot to talk about over dinner. We confide in each other. We share our fears over butter pecan ice cream.

We stay up until ungodly hours of the night, just to huddle under blankets and watch scary movies. I've seen these girls cry, and yell, and laugh so hard that we are all holding each other up because, now, we have to pee.

These girls, who I've only known for a little over a month, celebrated my birthday as if they'd known me for a lifetime. They showered me with flowers, balloons, a beautiful cake. They clapped and sang and took me out for drinks and dinner. They made me feel genuinely loved.

As catty and sassy as women can be, I think we need each other. We learn from each other, and help each other over hurtles that otherwise would have been tough to overcome. We share secrets, memories, plans for the future. We delve into each others lives as if we are living twice, and that is something truly special.