A Trip to the Store at Midnight.

An off-duty cop on a trip to pick up dill pickles for his pregnant wife.

I drive through the empty frozen and icy streets of Northern Michigan. It's storming, with wet snow and cold mist obscuring my windshield and whistling in through cracks in the chassis. An overworked heater is blasting warm air in to mix with the cold intrusions in alternating streams as the blower struggles to keep up.

It's Tuesday midnight and only the meat eaters are out, such as cops, crooks, drunks, and idiots, I think as I travel slippery streets. Why the hell should she insist on dill pickles and strawberry ice cream, for Christ’s sake? In this weather.

"Even the Seven-Eleven is closed in this weather. They know they won’t get any business tonight," I remind my auto, which is struggling too much to pay me any attention. Sure, I talk to my car, who doesn't?

Ten or twenty minutes later, I see the sparkle of a familiar sign down a side street. Not thinking, I stomp on the brakes, causing the car to spin round and round down the middle of a three-lane residential and business street. Getting it under control and stopped, I find that I’m turned around 180 degrees and still on the empty street -- a miracle?

I sit there, in the middle of the street, waiting for overtaxed nerves to settle down. It must be a full five minutes before I stop shaking and, very tentatively, nudge the gas pedal. Of course, with my luck I’m on an icy patch of the road and my tires spin -- getting no traction.

I put the lever in neutral and get out to push. My feet slip and I can’t get the car to move. Retrieving a crowbar out of the trunk, along with a bag of rock salt, I sprinkle the crystal on the road in front of all four wheels, forcing it under the treads. Then I chip footholds in the ice behind my idling chariot.

Damn, I forgot something. Getting back in, I turn on the emergency blinkers. It's so comfy there I wait for a while to warm up. Spent from the effort, I sit in a sort of daze for a few minutes, working up nerve to return to my labors. Might as well give the salt time to work itself in, I decide. As I sit, I idly watch the snow blowing -- in a solid sheet -- past my vehicle.

Suddenly, lights blaze in the rear-view mirror as two cars come up rapidly, seemingly ignoring icy streets. The first spins out of control. In avoiding me, it rams a telephone pole across the street. The other hits it smack in the side. I can hear the crunch as the second car comes to an abrupt stop, almost blocking the street next to me. Through a haze of mist helped by at least one broken radiator, I see occupants bail from both.

The space between us is suddenly filled with teenage kids, some without coats, as they run past me and into the night. One of them, long dark hair trailing, drops a large backpack as she runs past my headlights, a frightened look on a pretty face.

Red and blue lights blink as a couple of police cars, somehow retaining control, stop behind me. Four police officers run after the others.

“Damn, but I better get the hell out of here. Laurie’s marijuana is in the glove compartment,” I tell the car as I remember. I try again and, with a little tire spinning, manage to get enough purchase to move forward off the icy patch. The salt must have worked. Remembering the kid, and since I'd have to run over it otherwise, I stop and get out again to retrieve the backpack. There might be some ID in it, I think, and I can return it to the kid or something. As I get back in, I toss the cold canvas container into the back seat.

Not wanting to attract attention, I slowly drive to the corner in order to turn onto the side street toward that lit sign. I was wrong -- a Seven-Eleven is open. Leaving my engine running, I go in and pick up pickles and ice cream. Also, I take time for a cup of coffee before again facing the weather.

“You hear all the cop cars a while ago?” I ask the clerk, a chubby acned dishwater blond behind the counter, feeling hot coffee flopping around in my stomach.

“Yeah.” She eyes me carefully, for some reason. Who knows about people in these late night stores? I mean, which are stranger, the oddball customers or the dead-headed clerks that are willing to face almost weekly robberies for a pittance? It takes a strange person to work at a job like that.

“I mean, what ya’ think it’s all about?" I ask. “I’m an off-duty cop myself and it might concern me later.”

“Somethin’ bout’ a robbery at the Don Knotts Sports Arena.” Relaxing slightly at my admission, she points to a police scanner sitting on a nearby shelf. I don’t know how I missed the flashing lights and static when I came in. “A kid gang done robbed ‘um, I guess.”

She pauses for what is probably a rare smile at a customer, “I had three po-lice in here at the time, and they all had’da go back out in the cold. You should’a heard ‘um bitchin’.”

I immediately think of that backpack in my rear seat. Finishing my coffee I say goodbye to the clerk and leave.

I can't help but recall the pot in my glove compartment as I drive carefully home. I certainly don’t want to take a chance of being stopped by fellow -- but unhappily on duty -- police. My department does NOT give favored status to fellow officers.

From experience, I know that right now they will be like a hive of disturbed bees. Needless to say, I don’t want to get involved by volunteering on a night like this. On duty and dressed for the occasion is one thing, off duty and in a thin coat and street shoes? No way.

I manage to get into my garage and, because of the ice cream, hurry into the house. I’ll take care of the backpack later, in the morning. The storm should be over by then.

***

I never did get back to the garage last night. My pregnant wife kept me busy late into the evening.

At least the storm is over. I start the car and, while it warms up, turn on its radio to listen to the local news. I also reach back and jerk the backpack up front with me. After putting on plastic gloves from my back pocket, I open it.

I hear that most of the robbers from last night are still loose, which causes me to grin. Almost as much as the smile I have as I extricate a large bag of leaves and buds from the backpack. I put it aside for later and look through the rest of the bag. No money, except for a few singles in a worn pink wallet.

First the shrubbery. I check, and it is marijuana. This looks to be a pretty good day for me. I check the wallet and find a driver’s license inside. It belongs to a certain Stacy Majorski, 17, and gives an address.

May as well check it out on my way to work. First I store the marijuana in a secret stash of my own, a hidden cubbyhole in the garage ceiling. No reason to saddle the kid with a drug charge along with the robbery, is my thinking. With backpack and wallet on the seat next to me, I drive through now-cleared streets to the address on the license.

***

I am incredibly lucky. I get there in time to find a teenage girl stepping into a blue Chevy.

“Hey! You Stacy Majorski?” I accost her, coming up from behind while she’s still scraping frozen condensation from the inside of her windshield.

Even sitting down, she seems to jump a foot into the air at my greeting. Turning around with eyes the size of saucers, she is obviously frightened. Tough s**t, I figure.

I identify myself and grab her by the shoulder before she can run away. She looks past me and jerks upward an inch or so as I see her legs tense and weight shift as though ready to bolt.

Before she can, I press down roughly with both hands, pinning her to the seat. I feel the starch go out of her as she folds over the wheel, briefly shattering the morning silence with a horn blast. It stops as I jerk her out and to her feet. Holding her against the car with one hand, I search the girl quickly for weapons. Too bad I don’t have any cuffs with me.

“You better come with me, miss.” I use a belt from her jeans to tie her ankles together. It will keep her from jumping out on the way to the station. The capture will be a feather in my cap. If asked, I can simply say the backpack didn’t have any pot in it when an anonymous citizen gave it to me. I'll give the girl a break. Why add that rap to the robbery she's facing now? Besides, although I don’t smoke it, my wife can use the stuff. She says it works wonder on those pre-birthing pains.

The End.

Charlie

Reviews

[Victoria]

I liked the your narrative that was present throughout the telling of the story. It was descriptive, captivating and overall well thought out. There were a few technical errors, but either than that pretty good! One other piece of advice would be to work on the dialogue, as the dialogue that took place when he was talking to himself sometimes came across as a bit choppy.

[hvysmker]

I've never really been enthusiastic about pot. Oh, I'd smoke it with friends to be sociable and even smoked it once in a while in Nam when there was no booze available. Haven't had any for maybe 40 years.

[roarke]

Day in the life, "on the job" well told. Great in the moment perspective and narration. Lemme see, dill pickles or a haul of MJ?? tough decision, especially pregnant. What's not to like?