Hard to tell where Barker Ajax and I part company. He is with me always. From April 12, 1989.
On April Fool’s Day, I was at home, trying to decide whether to continue dozing off and on, or have a beer, or go for a run.
Life is full of such choices.
When the phone rang, I decided to answer it.
See what I mean?
It was Barker Ajax. Seems he had met this statuesque Alaska Airlines stewardess named Gretchen at the Virginia Cafe early one Buck Night.
Some time later, doubtlessly after plying him with potent liquor, she convinced weak Mr. Ajax to accompany her to Reno, Nevada, for the weekend.
She was a smooth talker. Besides, she had a magical … she had a real nice smile, so he went. He couldn’t just say no.
Anyway, that was the story when he called.
He is so easy.
Anyway, that was the story he told when he called. Barker wanted me to pick him up at the Portland International Airport. He said we’d meet right outside the baggage claim area. He said I was to wait for him in case he was unavoidably detained.
The trap had been set but my conscious mind had not heard the click.
I hit the Banfield and, before you know, right on time, I pulled into the ARRIVING FLIGHTS area. No Barker. Following instructions, I waited.
But not for long.
Stalking my parked car was the hulking figure of… no, it couldn’t be… but it was… this is so difficult… Imagine Jay Leno in drag and on steroids. It was a Port of Portland police officer.
She put her left hand – it had a green snake tattoo – on the hood of my car, as if to prohibit an escape.
With her right hand she motioned for me to roll down my window.
“You can’t park here,” she growled.
“Au contraire, constable. I have already demonstrated otherwise.”
“Let me see your driver’s license.”
I stalled.
“Gee, it’s really a bad photo. Doesn’t look anything like me at all.”
Where is Barker? Where was I?
“Honest, I look like the north end of a southbound polecat. The front is not my best side.”
“Do you feel lucky, chump?”, she asked, expressionless behind reflective sunglasses.
“I was born lucky,” I replied politely enough.
“Make my day, Pencil Neck,” she snarled, reaching for the driver’s door, which she opened before I could get to the lock.
Thankfully, when she tried to pull me out of the automobile, my seat belt held fast. Thank you, Ralph Nader.
All this did was infuriate Officer Unfriendly still more. She gave me some serious stink eye.
“Get out of this car right now or you will be very es-oh-ar-ar-eye-ee,” the veins in her neck bulged as she spelled out the threat.
Let me tell you. That did it. I AM MAN: HEAR ME ROAR.
Well, I’m here to report – but just barely – she may have been short on etiquette and lacking assorted interpersonal skills, but she could throw one helluva punch. We struggled.
I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But I will stand before Judge Roy Bean or Wapner, any jurist, and I’ll swear on a tall pile of religious tomes – I was provoked. Not to mention I was acting entirely within my constitutionally protected rights of self-defense.
Wasn’t much of a fight. More like an altercation.
I popped her right in the jaw and she shrugged it off like she was Rocky Balboa. She grabbed me around the chest, pinning my arms, lifted me off the ground and breathed in my face. That was the worst part.
“You shouldn’t oughta resist arrest,” the officer explained. “It’s lowlife slime like you who make it tough for decent folks.”
Everybody’s a critic.
Next thing I know I am being arrested like a common criminal, spread-eagled, handcuffed like I was a Hefty bag and humiliated like a guest on the Morton Downey, Jr. television hour.
Officer Hateful marched me straight through a maze deep into some gulag in the very bowels of PDX. Solitary. No cable TV.
When I saw the rubber hose, I flat out capitulated. I wasn’t sure what I had done wrong, felonious baggage claim parking perhaps. But I pleaded nolo contendere, which is attorney-speak for ‘The Devil made me do it.’ I finally produced my operator’s license and paid thirty-six dollars for a violation. Failure-to-obey-an-Armed-Female-in-an-Unattractive-Uniform-pretending-to-be-a-Real-Cop.
It’s a misdemeanor.
They agreed to postpone a hearing on the other charges: impersonating a columnist, and wearing a Rose Festival pin out of season.
The arresting officer came to release me. She handed me my belt and then she smiled what she must have thought was a seductive come-hither expression. No idea what a hither is. Reminded me of the way Sam Ervin eyeballed John Erlichman.
She opened her mouth and, really, she began to uh to to umm to… she ducked her head coyly. I’m guessing it was coyly.
She was trying to ask me out.
I am nothing if not sensitive to women’s feelings, so I interrupted her.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Why don’t you come by the house tonight and I’ll fix us a quiet dinner. A little wine. Soft music.” I winked. “Who knows?”
And then I gave her Barker’s address.
In 2022, I am reading Blake Bailey’s biography of Charles Jackson. An alcoholic, Jackson wrote the autobiographical novel The Lost Weekend, which chronicled a struggling writer’s five-day drinking binge. You have probably seen the movie.
If you don’t remember writing something, it becomes difficult to remember what is true and what may not be.
Anyway, I did date a police woman. The prettiest on the force, of course.
I remember that much.