“What the hell is that?” I said, pointing to the computer monitor.

“Oh,” the cop said. “That’s Karl up with his drone. We’re doing a sting on a rub and tug place.” Looking at the aerial view of a sandwich shop I sometimes frequent I said, “They operate out of there?” 

“Yeah. They rent a spot upstairs.” 

“If you see me going in there later, I’m just getting a sandwich.” 

“Sure,” the cop said, grinning. “Just don’t say anything about this.” 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“You ready Steve?” another cop, said. 

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.” Walking into the parking lot, I climbed into the police cruiser, but found the front passenger seat blocked by the officer’s patrol bag. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Let me get that out of the way.” 

“I hope you keep a pack of smokes in there.” 

“Actually, no.” 

Smiling, I thought about how many times I used cigarettes to calm or bribe patients into compliance when I worked psych. Then the powers that be banned smoking in all hospitals and nicotine withdrawal made patients get even more violent. If those corporate types worked the floors when shit went down, they’d be passing out Camels like candy but, when the ball went up, they were nowhere to be found. Wimps. 

“You know what’s going on?” the cop said, as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“Got a call from a neighbor. Said the guy hasn’t eaten in weeks.”

“Jesus.” 

“Let’s just go and see what we see.” Half turning, I looked at the shotgun and assault rifle locked in the rack behind me. When I was a kid, cops carried six shooters and had extra bullets in cartridge loops on their belts. Now, in addition to the long guns, they carried semi-auto pistols holding seventeen rounds with two extra mags. Something tells me if you need fifty-one rounds to solve a problem, you’d be better off with a flamethrower. I almost became a cop when I was twenty-one but, looking back on it, I’m grateful that never happened. Sure, I’d be retired with a pension by now, but I’d probably be bleeding alimony to three ex-wives. 

“How long you’d been on the job?” I asked. 

“Two years here,” the cop, a young guy, said. “Three with the sheriff before that.” 

“Work the jails?” 

“Oh yeah. That sucked.” 

As we made our way down our destination’s street, the cop said. “I’ve never been down here before.” Smiling, I said, “You’ll know the house when you see it.” 

The cop chuckled. “There it is. You’re right.” 

Pulling up to the dilapidated house, we got out of the car and walked up to the front door. “I have to turn my body camera on now,” the cop said. Remembering to be on my best professional behavior, I nodded. I didn’t see flies on the windows or smell the sweet sour smell of a decomposing body so, so far so good. Then we knocked on the door.  The subject of the welfare check was pretty much the usual – poor, medically compromised and suffering from mental illness. After I asked him a few questions, however, the man got squirrelly and then politely asked us to leave. Rebuffed, the cop and I got back into his car.

“He said he was hungry but refused food,” he said. 

“He’s oriented times three but there’s some kind of dementia going on. He can’t take care of himself anymore.” 

“But he doesn’t want help.” 

“He keeps going the way he’s going,” I said. “He’ll be dead in a week.” 

Back in my office, I called adult protective services, laid out what I knew, and they agreed to come over with a psych screener in a couple of hours. That surprised me. Must’ve been a slow day. “Could you have an officer escort us?” they asked. 

“Sure.” 

Later, as I headed back to the police station, I spied several state and county police cars lined up outside town hall. The rub and tug people were about to have very bad day. Walking by the computer monitor in the squad room, I saw the drone was no longer flying. 

“Showtime,” I said. 

“Yeah,” a cop said. 

“I’ll go there for a massage tonight,” I said. “They’ll probably be running a half off sale after this.” 

“I won’t say nothing.”  

Back at the welfare check’s home, I stood outside while the psych screener tried to work his magic. “Think he’ll go to the hospital voluntarily?” the same cop who accompanied me earlier, said. 

“Only way it can go,” I said. “Right now, there isn’t enough to make him.” 

While we waited. I listened to the police radio. There was a car accident on the highway and a baby was involved. As code words and sit reps calmly tumbled out of the mike clipped to the young cop’s epulet, I wondered how the officers on scene could sound so nonchalant. I’d be freaking out. 

“No entrapment,” the cop said, perhaps having noticed me tense up. “That’s a good sign.” 

Inside the house, I heard the man wail, ‘It’s never been so bad,” before his voice dipped below the range of my hearing. Looking at the ground, I stayed focused on the radio. They were taking the mom and baby to the hospital with what sounded like minor injuries. 

“He’ll go,” the adult protective services officer said, emerging from the house. Wow, a small miracle. 

“Need a rig?” the cop asked. 

“If you can transport him,” she said. “That’d be great.” 

As I waited for the man to come out, I watched as a young boy rode his bike down the street, agog at the police presence in his neighborhood. Catching his eye, I nodded, and he waved back. A couple of years ago a similar thing happened and the child, one of my daughter’s school chums, told everyone in her class that I was a cop. It took a while to convince Natalie I wasn’t – which I think disappointed her – but then again, she still doesn’t really understand what I do. 

The man came out wrapped in a blanket and was hustled as gently and quickly as possible into the cruiser. If we dallied, he might change his mind. “Good job,” I said to the screener. “You earned your money today.” 

“This kind of shit always happens on a Friday,” he said. “I’ve got something exactly like this next.”

Looking at my watch, it was way past quitting time, and I had to pick up my daughter at her Girl Scout project. Her troop was helping volunteers on the beautification committee grow flowers in a hothouse that would eventually be placed around town. When I arrived, my daughter was painting daisies and roses on a planter while she and her friends listened to Taylor Swift on the radio. 

“Your daughter a Swiftie?” I asked one of the waiting moms. 

“Every little girl is a Swiftie these days,” she said, rolling her eyes. 

“When you were your daughter’s age, I’m sure you had a favorite band.” 

“Oh yeah,” she said. “I was big into New Kids on the Block.”

“I liked Tiffany,” another mom said. Jesus, I was in college when these moms were in the fourth grade. Feeling somewhat aged, I leaned on a table and watched the scouts as they laughed, painted, potted, and sang. 

“Hey Steve,” one of the beautification volunteers said. 

“Looking good, Dan,” I said. “The flowers are lovely.” 

“The girls did a good job.” 

My town is bordered by three major highways. Instead of seeing garbage and weeds littering what could be dead space by the on and off ramps, the beautification folks fill them with lovely flowers. It’s a small but wonderful thing that always makes me smile. 

“Hi daddy,” Natalie said, greeting me splashed with paint. 

‘Ready to go?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

“We’re going to see Grandma, but I’ll take you to get something to eat first.” Since the sandwich shop was most definitely out, I defaulted to a taco place. A few minutes later, as I munched on my spicy cauliflower and chickpea taco, I looked through the eatery’s plate glass window at the aforementioned whorehouse smack dab in the middle of town. In the plaza diagonally across from it, I saw the flowers the beautification volunteers planted gently shaking in the breeze as a thunderstorm began to make its presence known.  

“How was your day, daddy?”  Natalie, asked. 

“Fine, honey,” I said – but I knew several people who’d had a very, very bad day: hurt babies, johns caught with their pants down, sex-trafficked hookers, the insane and the poor. Some were helped, others not so much. But I couldn’t tell my daughter any of that. “Look at those flowers,” I said, pointing. “Aren’t they beautiful? You’re helping do that!” 

“Yes,” she said, proudly. “I painted the planters.” 

“That’s very nice, dear.” 

No matter how big or how small, stories of darkness and light are always babbling simultaneously in every town. It’s occasionally overwhelming, even for me, but when that happens, I try to stop and smell the flowers. Sometimes beauty is the only way to absolve being of all its violences. 

Or it’d be pretty to think so.