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By Ron De Laby
Men are born equal but they are also born
different - Erich Fromm
The late summer of 1988 saw the promotion of
Jon Moreland to Detectives. With it came a much
welcomed pay increase. Jon’s time in grade had
also provided him with a step raise in addition
to a long overdue city increase. The
combination of the three allowed him to put a
down payment on a nice little two-bedroom house
overlooking Fairmont Park in the North end of
the city.
Along with the house came a wayfaring stranger
who straggled up to the front door one warm
evening and asked to come in for a bite to eat.
The stranger was invited in and stayed as a
permanent fixture. Jon named the stranger, a
female black Lab, “Chu Hoi” a little
remembrance from Vietnam. The term’s closest
translation was “Open Arms”, or “Surrender”.
The dog simply became known as “Chu”
To celebrate the promotion Jon invited Malorie
over for a burned steak and a glass of Merlot.
He had installed a swing on the small side
porch and listened attentively as she regaled
him with past tales of daring with her various
roughneck brothers. He admired her shapely legs
as she curled them up on the overstuffed pad of
the swing, tucking them under like a cat. She
rocked the swing absently with one hand and
sipped the Merlot with the other as they
chatted.
“Say,” she suddenly exclaimed. “Who is Sean
Rogers? I mean I know who he is but what kind
of officer is he? We got a report from him
about filing a complaint on an eastsider for a
kidnap and assault, and I have to tell you the
guy strikes me as kinda different. What do you
know about him?”
Jon turned the steaks and raised the grill so
they could have a few minutes to talk.
“Well,” he began, “Sean is a little different.
I worked around him for a while on the eastside
when I was in uniform and he does seem to have
his own way of doing business. Not that it
doesn’t work; it’s just really different. But I
know what you mean. What do I know about him?
Well,” he chuckled at a memory. “What I
remember most is this.” He began to unfold the
tale. “3 Robert 5, 3 Robert 5.” The
dispatcher’s voice broke through his reverie.
Sean Rogers looked at his watch and wearily
removed the microphone from its cradle.
“3 Robert 5, Market and 14th,” he responded.
“Bitch, give me a call and you’re in deep
shit,” he thought.
“3 Robert 5, see the woman, a family
four-fifteen at thirty-one twenty-five Cedar.
3-1-2-5 Cedar, cross of First.”
“Five, 10-4. Is 5 Adam clear?” The call wasn’t
even on his beat. What a dumb bitch.
“3 Robert 5, negative at this time.”
The dispatcher was starting to become
flustered. She was new and she had run into
Sean’s disagreeable attitude before. Unlike the
other dispatchers who had not only been there
longer but had already bedded half the uniform
division, she did not have the horsepower to
argue as effectively.
“Five, how about Robert Ten?”
He was clearly trying to avoid the call. Even
though it was only the first hour of a three to
eleven shift, he was not known to go out of his
way to protect and serve. In fact, Sean Rogers
had established beyond a reasonable doubt, many
years before, that he not only disliked people,
he absolutely and conclusively hated every
living thing.
“Sam-57 to Robert Five, Channel four.”
The dispatcher breathed a small sigh of relief.
A sergeant was going to tell that moron to
handle the call and to quit arguing with her.
She glanced at the clock on the console. Only
an hour into the shift and she was catching
grief already. It was going to be a long night.
Sean had twenty-four years under his well-worn
Sam Browne. The problem however, was two-fold.
One: Sean was only forty-five years old, too
young to retire. Under the city’s benevolent
plan, members of the P.D. had to be a minimum
of fifty before they could pull the pin and
leave. Ohh, there was some military buy back
options but since Sean was never in the
military that program was useless. There was a
strong suspicion amongst the older crew that
the magic age of fifty had been decided upon
because no one was expected to live that long.
With each succeeding year it became even more
apparent that the city fathers, Satan rest
their black souls, were more correct in that
assessment than even they could have suspected.
And Two: Sean had no interest in going anywhere
anyway. He was trapped in a twilight zone of
conflicting emotions. In the first place he
hated his job. In the second place there was
nothing else he cared for, so he might as well
stay in the first place.
Because of his surly and sarcastic attitude and
his dislike for everything with a beating
heart, Sean promptly became known as “Jolly”
Rogers. The handle was all too fitting in a
rather dark sort of way. The name took root and
grew like a noxious weed among the uniform
crew. Even Sean seemed to agree it “added
character” to his otherwise sterling
personality. In fact, he was so moved by the
thought that the others would bestow such an
honor upon him, he had risen to the occasion
and had a special nametag created.
The standard police nametag sits over, and is
centered on, the right pocket of the uniform
shirt. It is black plastic and contains the
last name of its wearer in white letters.
Jolly’s nametag sported the entire title of
“Jolly” Rogers and was accompanied by an
engraving of a small skull and crossbones to
commemorate the namesake. Of course the
“special” nametag could only be worn on certain
occasions, those being anytime he was out of
personal contact with a supervisor.
No one knew exactly where or when Jolly went
wrong. His wife of twenty years had not only
divorced him but had also moved out of town and
threatened him with a restraining order if he
should ever show his face within her new city
limits. It was rumored she always carried a
mirror, a crucifix and a clove of garlic in an
emergency kit on the off chance she might
actually run into him at some inopportune time.
There were two children from the long dead
marriage. They were both boys. One was believed
to belong to a super secret military unit,
which wore Girl Scout hats and was deployed on
missions in third world countries blowing
swarthy little people to bits. The other could
be found at various airports around the country
wearing saffron colored robes and chanting “Oooommmm.”
Jolly was a friend of hops and barley. In fact,
those in the know, who purchased stock in
whichever brewing company Jolly happened to
favor, made considerable fortunes. It was said
that when a well known Mexican activist struck
against a well known beer company and changed
multitudinous Mexican taste buds to a
competitor’s brand, Jolly single-handedly
brought that company back from the brink of
bankruptcy.
Jolly was one of those rare individuals who was
incapable of functioning with any degree of
civility at a blood alcohol level of less than
.08 percent. He was a textbook alcoholic. A
mean trick when 40 or more hours of one’s work
week required absolute, not “Absolut” sobriety.
Most everyone else considered the protection of
the citizenry a sacred trust. Jolly knew the
job of a policeman had but a singular purpose;
to keep Jolly entertained. In his nightly
pursuit of his entertainment he drove the Watch
Commander and field supervisors to attacks of
acid reflux. No one really knew what nefarious
scheme was about to be hatched in his alcohol
destroyed brain but when it matured and was
ready to be born, you could be certain it would
be a double honker.
Jolly preferred to work among the Mexican
population of Riverside. He did so because this
particular ethnic group had a deep abiding fear
of the police and were not as likely to voice
complaints. Therefore, the nightly
entertainment was less likely to be
interrupted. Of course, this gave Jolly a
license to steal when it came to running his
beat. These people were, of course, his people,
his “subjects.”
One thing, which could honestly be said about
Jolly, was that he had a weird sense of humor.
The depth of that weirdness came to pass in a
somewhat backhanded sort of way. During the
ongoing investigation of a family problem, a
day watch officer was having difficulty
understanding the broken English explanation
being given. He therefore requested a
Spanish-speaking officer.
The patrol supervisor on duty and closest unit
was Sergeant Dave Garcia, Sam-55. He responded
to the scene and after conferring with the
investigating officer he began to offer a
translation. During the course of the
conversation with the female member of the
family problem, a curious question was posed.
“Como esta el policía con el ojo arruinado?”
Sergeant Dave was at a loss.
“What policeman with the ruined eye? We have no
such policeman.” He said.
“Si, Si,” the woman responded.
“Usted el concoce. El desgasta la corrección
negra concluido su ojo arruinado Tal vergüenza.
Como sucedió?”
Sam-55 ran the translation over in his mind
very slowly, thinking “Huh?”
“You know the one. He wears a black patch over
his ruined eye. Such a shame, how did it
happen?”
When he finally made the connection, Sergeant
Dave saw to it that a copy of the uniform
regulations was passed out at each roll call.
The addendum, written in heavy felt pen, made
some cryptic reference to eye patches. Of
course everyone knew the stress had gotten to
Sergeant Dave and it was soon rumored he might
be retiring because of it.
Even so, black patch sightings regularly
occurred and Jolly remained entertained. His
subjects often wondered how the policia had
come to lose his eye. There was an ongoing
disagreement as to whether he had lost the use
of the left eye or the right eye as the
condition seemed to change with relative
frequency.
Jolly was known to be even less jolly around
the melanin-enhanced citizens of Riverside. His
disdain for the darker population was so well
known that there was extraordinary effort put
forth to avoid assigning him to any beat
covering such areas.
Since the police population in Riverside was
somewhat limited, there came an occasion one
evening when Jolly was required to fill in on
an adjoining beat. The regular beat officer,
who happened to not only be black, but also
have a black recruit, was down for the count
with the flu. Jolly was elected to fill his
place. Prior to roll call the duty Sergeant
took Jolly aside and broke the news to him. He
was warned at that time to put forth his best
effort to train the new recruit officer and not
damage him too badly. Jolly reluctantly agreed.
Upon the completion of roll call, officers went
to their respective units and performed routine
checks for unreported damage and verified the
working condition of the various components of
the cars. Jolly of course made certain his
recruit officer performed all the tasks for
“training purposes.”
The relationship between Jolly and the recruit
officer started off tenuously at best. The
young officer’s name was Freeman Jones, but
Jolly insisted on referring to him as his “boy”
or his “gun bearer.” Either name, of course,
was considered not only highly inappropriate,
but a major “trigger word.” Freeman decided to
grin and bear it since his tour of duty with
Jolly was only going to be for a limited
period, and he really wanted this job.
“Here’s the deal,” said, Jolly, as he firmly
ensconced himself in the passenger seat.
“You drive. I meditate. We get a call you don’t
answer it. I talk, you listen. You don’t talk.
Got it?” Jolly was nothing if not succinct.
Freeman nodded, afraid to even speak.
“How long you been on?” Jolly inquired.
Freeman held up four fingers.
“What is that?” asked, Jolly
“Four weeks? Four days? Four hours? What?”
“Four weeks,” squeaked Freeman.
“Good enough,” said, Jolly.
“You’re practically a pro. Now drive.” He
curled up on the front seat and turned his face
to the window and went to sleep.
Throughout the evening Freeman drove, terrified
he might be forced to make a decision or worse,
ask his partner for any help.
About three hours into the shift Freeman turned
a corner just as a black male subject stepped
into the street. He jumped back on the curb,
outraged at the prospect of being nearly struck
by the police car. He slammed his hand on the
hood of the black and white and shouted at the
two officers. Freeman slammed on the brakes
shaking Jolly awake.
“What the Fu…?” inquired the senior officer.
“Freeman, boy. What the hell are you doing?”
Jolly was visibly upset at being awakened so
rudely.
“I think I hit him,” Freeman was even more
upset. He could see his police career fly out
the window over a pedestrian accident while he
was still on probation.
“Ahh, shit,” said, Jolly as he got out of the
patrol car.
“What the hell you doin hittin’ my car like
that?” he angrily demanded of the pedestrian,
aptly shifting the blame of the collision to
the victim. This enraged the man even further.
“Motha Fucken PO-lice. Ain’t nothin’ but PIGS.”
He shouted as he rubbed his supposedly bruised
and battered leg.
The man peered into the front windshield of the
police car and noticed Freeman for the first
time.
“Well, looky here. I gots daddy PIG and baby
PIG,” he continued, dancing around, shuffling
his feet and moving his shoulders in time to
some far away rhythm only he could hear.
Jolly folded his arms and watched the man
through slitted eyes.
The dance continued punctuated by stabs in the
air with an index finger to emphasize points.
“YO. White PIG. Got yoself a BLACK woman ‘n
have you a baby PIG?” He laughed derisively at
the officers.
Jolly had long since reached the end of his
patience. He ambled over and prodded the man in
the chest with a finger in hopes of inviting a
swing.
“There’s just one big difference between you
and me, asshole,” he announced, poking the
man’s chest with each word and forcing him back
on the sidewalk.
“When I go home, I can take this pigskin off.”
He turned around and got back in the patrol
car, the message obviously too deep for the
pedestrian who stood there blinking. Freeman
sat gloomily, his head resting on the steering
wheel, staring at the floorboard. Visions of a
heroic career going down in smoke and flames.
He mentally ticked off the upcoming sequence of
events: Hit and Run, Assault and Battery. A
citizen’s complaint review board; followed by
the chief of police dramatically ripping the
buttons from his uniform shirt to the
accompaniment of a drum roll.
“Drive,” commanded, Jolly.
Third watch roll call started promptly at 2:45
p.m. Most sergeants were sticklers for the time
and would glare warningly at anyone entering
the room at 2:46 p.m. The events were pretty
much the same every evening. Read off beat
assignments and provide the keys to available
units. The latter always provoked indignant
complaints from the senior officers who, by
some oversight, might not have been issued the
latest and best patrol vehicle.
The sergeant read off assignments as he had for
many years.
“3-Robert-60, Jones. Unit 2058.”
“3-Robert-45, Hendricks. Unit 2255”
“3-Robert-15, Foley. Unit 2150.”
“2150?” replied a horrified Foley. With ten
years he was the second senior officer on the
shift and was due entirely more respect than
being assigned such an out of date patrol
vehicle. “C’mon, Sarge. 2150 is a piece of
shit.” The roll call sergeant looked at Foley
over the top of his half frame glasses.
“3-Robert-15, Foley. Unit 2150,” he repeated.
“Rogers. Air-One needs an observer. Morley
called in sick. You’re it.” Said the sergeant.
“Ohh Christ,” responded Sean. “Why is it always
me?”
Secretly he enjoyed the occasional break from a
black and white and who knows what wonders
lurked around suburban swimming pools in July.
Why, just last week Air-1’s observer had logged
no less than six titty sightings, one of which
jumped up and down and waved exuberantly. This
action, of course, prompted a circular orbit on
the residence that lasted to within 2 seconds
of a personnel complaint by the neighbors.
Promise was in the air but true to his
reputation, Jolly was required to take anything
and everything as a personal affront.
The Hughes 500 is a small egg shaped helicopter
capable of superior speed and maneuverability.
It is a favorite among most law enforcement
agencies. However, because of its size, it
affords little room for the pilot and observer
to move around while in flight. Of course the
folks who designed this particular craft did
not know Sean Rogers or they might have
compensated.
The heat waves rising from the tarmac of the
airport created a visual sensation of peering
through water. The blades of Air –1 were
winding up to their appropriate liftoff pitch
and the pilot was completing his pre-flight
check.
“Riverside tower, this is police helicopter
November 1-7-3-5-Niner requesting clearance for
takeoff.” The pilots voice modulated low and
practiced in Jolly’s headset.
“November 1-7-3-5-Niner, clear.” Responded the
mechanical sounding voice from the tower.
The tail end of the helicopter lifted first and
the forward airspeed began to increase as the
small helicopter raced across the asphalt. This
sensation was always a thrill to Jolly. As the
aircraft lifted it gave the sensation of the
earth falling away, creating a slightly sinking
feeling in his stomach. He belched a fermented
bubble of hops and barley.
“Air-1, 10-8” The pilot announced to the
dispatcher over the police frequency.
“Air-1, 10-8, 10-4, assist the units at
Twenty-one fifty-seven Holly Drive. 2-1-5-7-
Holly Drive, cross of Orefield. A possible
4-5-9 in progress. 3-Robert-57 handling.
“A residential burglary in progress,” thought
Jolly. “Now here was something worth flying
for. Air-1, 2157 Holly, copy, enroute.”
Responded, Jolly.
The helicopter arrived within four minutes of
the call and began a circular orbit over the
address in question. Below, the large black
numbers painted on the white roofs identified
the approaching patrol vehicles. By consulting
a copy of the watch roster the observer could
associate who was driving which unit.
Officers were still responding when Air-1 began
its orbit over the house. Two figures exited
the front door of the residence and glanced
briefly upward. They entered a vehicle parked
in the driveway and drove off at a high rate of
speed.
“Looks like our boys,” said, Jolly over the
headset. The pilot nodded and angled the craft
to fall in behind the fleeing vehicle.
Jolly depressed the foot switch, opening the
mike to the radio frequency.
“Air-1, we have a Blue 1980’s model Ford
leaving the residence at a high rate of speed,
proceeding Northbound on Orefield. The
occupants are two male Negroes with light
colored shirts and levis.” Removing his foot
from the floor switch he quipped to the pilot
over the headset.
“Two male usuals, standard description A,” he
chuckled.
Below, a black and white careened around a
corner, falling in directly behind the fleeing
suspect vehicle.
“3-Robert-60. I have the suspect vehicle
Northbound on Orefield at Davis, license,
867-Adam, Sam, Henry. He read off the plate to
the dispatcher.
“3-Robert-60, Northbound on Orefield at Davis.
8-6-7-Adam, Sam Henry, copy.” Replied the
dispatcher. Units were converging from several
beats away and would attempt to hem in the
suspect vehicle.
Seconds later the dispatcher announced the
results of a license check on the suspect
vehicle.
“Units responding to Orefield. 8-6-7-Adam Sam
Henry is a stolen out of Pomona.”
“No shit,” Jolly leaned over and nudged the
pilot. “What the hell else was it gonna be?”
The blue ford made a sharp right turn onto a
dirt road leading to an orange grove. It
fishtailed, throwing out rooster plumes of
light brown dirt as it attempted to regain
traction.
“They’re gonna bail when they hit that grove,”
said Jolly.
Seconds later his prediction came true. The
vehicle was abandoned and the suspects vanished
into a small orange grove about a city block
square.
“Unit’s responding,” Jolly continued. “Suspects
have abandoned the suspect vehicle and are on
foot in the grove at Orefield and a frontage
road.” Below, units were attempting to cover
each side of the grove area.
“Crap,” observed Jolly. “This shit could take
all day. Take it down to that open area. I have
an idea.” He told the pilot. “What are you
gonna do?” The pilot asked, and was immediately
sorry he did.
“We’re gonna get us some baseball grenades and
have us an air strike,” said Jolly. “We’ll bomb
the bastards and drive ‘em out.”
The best intentions are not necessarily always
the correct solutions to problems. Baseball
grenades are so named because they are a
similar size and shape to softballs. There the
resemblance ends. They are constructed of hard
gray rubber and contain powdered
Chloracetophenone, or CN gas. Once the fuse is
activated it burns the gas setting off clouds
of noxious chemicals guaranteed to force the
submission of even the most recalcitrant
suspect. But sometimes, these grenades are hard
to hang on to.
Collecting a goodly supply of baseball grenades
from the trunks of the assembled units, Jolly
reentered the helicopter and signaled for the
pilot to take it up again.
The pilot increased the rpm and once again the
aircraft lifted upward throwing huge clouds of
powdered brown dust everywhere and on
everything “Up we go, into the wild blue
yonderrrrrrrrrrrr,” Jolly sang loudly and off
key into the headset mike, causing the pilot to
wince.
“Take it over there.” He pointed to an area
just ahead of where the suspects were last
seen.
“We’ll pop the grenades and drop them all over
the grove. They’ll come out,” predicted Jolly.
He forced open the small Plexiglas side window
and dropped the first of several baseball
grenades.
“Bombs Away!” Shouted, Jolly, with a mirthful
tone to his voice. The pilot shook his head and
flew.
Of course FAA regulations strictly forbid
“dropping” anything from aircraft, but who had
time for such foolishness? This was a police
emergency.
Air-1 made a series of passes in which Jolly
gleefully pulled the safety ring of each
grenade and dropped it into the trees below.
The results were rather spectacular. Large
clouds of gas could be seen billowing up over
the tops of the trees and spreading out over a
fair distance before drifting to earth. Some of
the grenades were noted to have shorter fuses,
which caused even more spectacular airbursts. A
true Fourth of July show, compliments of Sean
“Jolly” Rogers.
As fate would have it the gods had apparently
decided Jolly’s operation was going a little
too smoothly and had decided to inject a little
fun into the equation. After about the tenth
“bomb” was dropped and during a particularly
low pass, a small amount of gas wafted into the
cabin of Air-1. Now, one of the greatest
components of CN gas is its ability to convince
the human lungs that they have suddenly and
irrevocably shrunk to the size of walnuts. This
condition creates absolute panic in the wearer
of said lungs and causes all manner of adverse
reaction. When one is piloting a half
million-dollar aircraft 350 feet above the
ground, contrary lungs and adverse reactions
are the last things one wishes to have.
The first whiff of gas caused Jolly to rub his
eyes. This, of course, is the first thing at
the top of the “Don’t Do” list. The burning
sensation quickly accelerated to meltdown
levels and Jolly began to thrash around just as
he was about to unleash grenade from hell
number eleven. The safety pin had already been
pulled and the only thing keeping it safe was
Jolly’s gloved mitt. Rubbing his eye caused him
to lose his grip on the round object and he
dropped it on the floor of the aircraft. The
safety lever flew off with a “ping.” The spring
activated firing pin set the fuse on its
downward course to the interior of the rubber
ball. A huge cloud of white smoke began to
escape from the grenade as it processed into
melt down and spun like a deranged top on the
floor of the helicopter.
Jolly and the helicopter pilot had but the
briefest moment to stare at each other in
wide-eyed horror as they realized what had just
occurred. The pilot wheeled the aircraft over
hard to port and dove for the ground as the
cloud quickly filled the bubble.
Choking and gasping for air and completely
blind he pulled back on the collective and
attempted to “flare” to a landing at a
guestimated height. He was only off by a few
inches and Air-1 hit the ground with a
teeth-shattering impact. It skipped and bounced
along the hard dirt surface, teetering first
right and then left. Each time the overhead
rotor came within fractions of striking the
ground and cart wheeling the occupants into
oblivion.
The radio car patrolmen on the ground dove for
cover as the police meteorite streaked their
way. The two suspects, Montel Jones and James
“Pokey” Washington were perched in an orange
tree just inside the first row of orange trees
and were treated to an outstanding view of the
unfolding drama. Saucer-eyed and open mouthed
they watched the ship finally settle after the
third bounce, skid 360 degrees and rock to a
stop. The doors flew open and two policemen
fell out to the ground choking, cursing,
kicking and gasping for breath.
“Now they gone blame this muthafuckin shit on
us, you watch.” Said Montel.
“Shee-it,” said Pokey. “We be in for it now.”
Both suspects emerged from the tree line with
their hands over their head in hopes of at
least being taken alive.
“Don’t shoot,” said Montel.
“Don’t shoot,” said Pokey.
There wasn’t much chance of being shot. The
gaggle of patrolmen was so busy recovering from
the downing of Air –1, they didn’t even notice
their quarry approach.
Finally an alert patrol officer saw the two
suspects and quickly drew down on them shouting
the customary greeting; “FREEZE!” The two,
needing no further encouragement to cooperate,
were taken into custody and whisked away for
booking.
Jolly and the pilot managed to pull themselves
together after a time. The remaining patrolmen
gathered around in awe at the amazing two aces
who managed to pull off such an incredible
feat. Jolly and the pilot removed their helmets
and stared at each other. Their faces streaked
with rivulets of sweat and tears. Their
formerly blue uniforms brown with powdered dirt
from rolling around on the ground.
A dry cleaning bill was the least of their
worries, however. Word of such an occurrence in
police circles is about as likely to remain a
secret as the second coming. Unlike its
counterpart in the war in Vietnam, the incident
rapidly became known as “Operation Rolling
Blunder.” Sympathy cards were received from
departments as far away as Moose Breath, Maine,
a three-man department with no hope of ever
receiving funding for a helicopter.
As is the case in the police profession, it
wasn’t long before the review board was
convened and appropriate unpaid vacations were
awarded to the two erstwhile heroes. Even the
timely arrest of the two suspects seemed to
make no impression on the review board, which
was noted for its lack of understanding in such
matters.
The disinfecting of the aircraft came to
considerable expense, as it had to be almost
completely dismantled and each part scrubbed
clean. It was out of service for six weeks.
Jolly took his two months off in stride. His
partner in the fiasco was a little less
enthusiastic about the mark on his heretofore
unblemished record. He made it quite clear he
would provide great and grievous bodily harm
should their paths ever again cross.
Montel and “Pokey” pleaded guilty to a
lesser-included charge of trespass. As they had
been interrupted before the completion of the
burglary, a feeble-minded jury had been
convinced by the public defender that the two
had only stopped by the unoccupied residence in
search of a drink of water. Since the front
door was already standing open, it appeared to
be sort of a “Welcome Inn.”
The two briefly considered filing a civil
lawsuit against the police department for a
claim of emotional distress following the
harrowing incident with the helicopter. They
decided to abandon the idea after some
consideration as it might be construed to be
pushing the envelope a bit. They decided to let
some time go by and if things went well they
could always return to the house and finish the
job. Who knows, they might get away with it
next time.
The sun was beginning to set and the evening
breeze helped dissipate some of the day’s
accumulated heat.
Malorie eventually recovered from a laughing
fit and settled in to rock quietly in the
swing. She gazed at Jon over the top of her
wine glass. Jon had a song going in the
background, “As time goes by.” She wondered
about their future together as only a woman
can. He was a very interesting man and he held
her attention for much longer than anyone else
she had ever met. The gentle way he treated her
was real. He wasn’t pushy and demanding. When
she was around him it was almost as though she
was one of his buddies and for that she was
grateful.
Jon glanced at the woman gently swinging back
and forth. She was a breath of fresh air
compared to anyone else he had ever met. She
was intelligent and secure in her own way. She
demonstrated no need for a man. That alone
raised his opinion of her threefold. She was
not pushing for a relationship nor did she
appear interested in having someone provide a
nest for her. The setting sun cast its rays on
her auburn hair, burnishing it to a dark copper
hue. She was a striking woman there was no
doubt. If he wasn’t careful he could grow to
like this handful of M&M’s. The steaks were now
done to charred perfection. Jon refilled their
glasses and they sat down to eat, chuckling
occasionally over the visuals he had painted.
“And that, is pretty much how I remember
Jolly,” said Jon. “You might say he has his own
take on life.”
Jon slipped occasional bites of steak under the
table to “Chu” unaware that Malorie was doing
the same thing from her side of the small
table. Chu couldn’t believe her luck; she was
in dog heaven.
About the Author
Ron De Laby is a retired police sergeant from
Riverside, California. He served in the
Uniformed Patrol Division, Traffic Division,
Communications, Personnel and Training and the
Detective Division. He instructed at the basic
and advanced academies and was a principal
instructor in the Advanced Officer Survival
courses. He holds POST advanced and Supervisory
Certification. Ron graduated from California
State University, Los Angeles with a Bachelor
of Science degree in Criminal Justice and holds
a Masters degree in Public Administration from
the University of Southern California. He has
done post-graduate work in Psychology at the
University of California, Riverside. Ron has
been married to his wife, Janet for 33 years,
they have four boys.
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