Adventures With the DC Police

Perhaps it's my years as a radical leftist, but I've never been a huge fan of law enforcement officials. Everything from their uniforms with their dumb shiny badges, those aviator shades many of them insist on wearing, and their ridiculous swagger bugs the sh*t out of me. Not to mention the fact that many completely abuse their positions of power, and when they confiscate your drugs, they often keep 'em for themselves.

It was therefore with hesitancy that I called DC's finest yesterday afternoon to file a report on the damages inflicted upon the poor decaying manse I call home. But I did so anyway, because it seemed like the civically responsible thing to do, and apparently part of being an adult is doing civically responsible things. They arrived after about an hour's wait.

There was two of them, male and female. They walked with the swagger I so detest and indeed their uniforms threatened to blind me with all of their bling. But I was nice to them, downright charming in fact, because they were there to help me.

I showed them the damages and they looked at me with confusion. Did I want to press charges?

I considered that option for a second thinking how funny that would be but quickly decided against it. Having your fellow citizens arrested merely for your own entertainment seems irresponsible and probably not very conducive to fostering good karma.

Am I *sure* I didn't want to press charges? The male officer's eyes lit up with glee every time he asked.

Yes, I am sure. No charges will be pressed. This time.

Next time he comes over you can call us, the male one told me. And then we can *you know* which he said while pantomiming putting handcuffs on a person. This was actually rather funny and probably the most enriching aspect of the whole experience. I can mimic a police officer arresting someone like I'm some sort of insider. Catch me at the next blogger happy hour and I will show you how it's done. Then you too can be as awesome as I.

The female officers informed me that by not pressing charges, this is really a civil matter that I will need to work out myself. I informed her that I was already in communication with the perp' and that I was handling it my own way.

They wanted to know why I called them. I told them I thought I was supposed to. They guffawed. The female one was looking at me all judgmental-like, probably questioning my choices in men, something I sometimes wonder about myself. Really, when you meet a guy at a bar, how are you supposed to know that he might be a really crazy drunk with a penchant for kicking in peoples' doors? He seemed like a better catch than the guy I met that summer who wanted me to help him break into a person's house to steal their stereo. Or the coke-head British Indieblue waiter. And for the most part he was a fun person to date. I was unemployed so he bought me drinks all the time and listened to my fascinating accounts of not working and what it was like to apply for jobs and live off of a budget of 12 dollars a day. I was miles away from wanting to find a life partner, and this one seemed just a good of a guy as any to waste some time with.

Anyway. My judgment in other people has never been very good. I'm not one of those people who just looks at a person, decides yes or no, and always makes the right choice. I invite people into my life who turn out to be complete flakes; who are only using me as a rebound girl; who befriend my friends and then dump me; who gab with me about the boys I like and then end up making out with them at parties. I am entirely too trusting, an irony for somebody as sarcastic and cynical in real life as I. On any given week, my life is a roller coaster of personal dramas. It has been pointed out that I thrive on such sh*t, and to some extent that's true. I like to keep things interesting. I hate boredom. And I am slowly learning to pick and choose the drama I invite into my life. In order to hurt less.

Eventually the cops left. I had a few cocktails. 46 came over (first visit to my house ever) and we drank some more. Because some situations simply call for that kind of thing and this was one of them. I've been scared that 46 would think less of me because I live in a dilapidated group house but he really liked it. He was able to appreciate the home's quirks and he likes my decorating sense (lots of dark wood, some antiques, lots of art work, tons of books, and lots of textiles, none of which match but all seem to go together in an odd way. And tons of crap on the floor--intentional, I swear!). So that was a relief and it made me like him even more. I am growing to find all of the quirks in our relationship endearing and funny. We're quite a pair. On the one hand he lectures me on my wild ways, but then he turns around and eggs me on. He calls me a "terror" and yet I think that's one of the qualities he likes best in me.

But that's somewhat off track, isn't it?

So, long story short--don't bother filing a police report in DC if you don't want to press charges. And if you do want to press charges, I have a new police officer friend who would be more than happy to help you out there.