“I am wary of a lot of things, such as plastic credit cards, payroll deductions, insurance programs, retirement benefits, savings accounts, Green Stamps, time clocks, newspapers, mortgages, sermons, miracle fabrics, deodorants, check lists, time payments, political parties, lending libraries, television, actresses, junior chambers of commerce, pageants, progress, and manifest destiny. I am wary of the whole dreary deadening structured mess we have built into such a glittering top-heavy structure that there is nothing left to see but the glitter, and the brute routines of maintaining it.”
—Travis McGee. A Deep Blue Good-by (1964)
To be honest, he couldn’t remember her name.
But he knew who he was and he sure wasn’t the kind of guy who should be spending all this time with police.
She was just so damn pretty and little and, well, sparkly. Looking back, Barker could see, she’d probably dumped him as being less than reliable. In a solid future kind of way. Couldn’t remember.
He did remember arguing about marijuana. This had to be the mid-1980s. Portland, pre-crack epidemic. Seem to remember she worked a few quiet shifts and her and her partner would cruise slowly up and down quiet streets looking in the windows of old Victorian houses in the Northwest neighborhood, looking for potted pot plants in the sunlight. Barker thought that was wrong on a couple of levels and he told her so.
She never used her handcuffs on him. He remembered that.
He remembered her complaining about always being the officer tossed over the fence – “you’re so light” – or the uniformed who has to go through the bathroom window – “you’re so small.”
Barker had no doubt whatsoever she could kick his ass.
Women on the force was still something new. It was a man’s job and so not surprising other female officers looked a lot like Doug on King Of Queens. Buzz cuts and plaid flannel.
But when they needed somebody to go undercover in a revealing outfit, guess who always got the call? She wanted to chase bad guys, not entrap perverted parish priests or unhappy husbands from Beaverton.
“You’re so pretty.” “You’re so sexy.” “You’re a cop who looks like a girl.” “You’re all we got.” Then hire somebody else, please. Geezus.
Dawned on him he was somebody she could complain to.
Nighttime. Prostitution not a problem as long as the streetwalkers stayed across the river. The blue-haired ladies on upper Vista didn’t complain until you could see hookers on your way to the OMSI Auction.
Remember my girlfriend was working a corner downtown – this is before light rail – looking like a woman who would. Mesh stockings, slinky black dress, big leopard purse.
Short, fat, old Asian approached her, told her what he would like her to do with him. To him. She sent him away. He looked like a disgusting toad, she later told her sargeant.
My girlfriend, the undercover decoy cop, profiled the horny toad as a tourist, probably a Rotarian, and sent him to the nearest ATM to get more cash.
He came back with a fat wallet and a big smile and she arrested him.
“I am not going to sit in a public courtroom and swear on the Bible, ‘Yes, your Honor, I agreed to give the defendant that man, ewww, Mr. Kong a blowjob for twenty dollars.’ $20! No way.”
You could’ve said ‘fellatio,’ Barker offered.
That’s all he could remember about her.
“Every day, no matter how you fight it, you learn a little more about yourself, and all most of it does is teach humility.”
—One Fearful Yellow Eye (1966)