Today I showed up at the station a full hour late, because I overslept.
“You’re an hour late,” said my police partner, Officer Giovanni, who was assigned to me on the day when I first joined the force and has been my best friend ever since; “it’s 5:20 a.m.”
“I know. I overslept,” I said. “Pass me a donut and some coffee.”
“Here you go,” said Officer Giovanni, handing me my favorite style of jelly-filled pastry and a mug of steamy hot blackness from our station’s French press.
I took a sip and a bite; then said: “I hate that cliché about cops being addicted to donuts and coffee — it’s not fair to pin those proclivities on us: Doesn’t everyone love these things? Plus: we’re in a hurry, because we fight crime, which demands that we move rapidly and remain agile; all of which requires energy — and what better source of fast energy than sugar and caffeine?”
“I agree,” replied my partner Giovanni. “Moreover, didn’t the ancients refer to pastries as ‘the food of the gods’? So why should it be a deplorable thing to love donuts? This basically means that police are like earthly deities.”
“Amen to that,” I said, dabbing my lips with an ornate cloth napkin. Then I clapped my hands and said: “Well, shall we begin?”
“Yes, let’s,” said Officer Giovanni, draping his arm around my shoulder.
We walked to our patrol car and entered. Giovanni took the driver’s seat, and I sat on the passenger’s side.
“Where to?” asked my partner, Officer Giovanni.
“Hmm… let me see…” I said, after retrieving a laminated menu from our cop car’s glove compartment and running my finger over its list of possibilities. “How about India? — It says here that there’s at least a couple distress calls coming from thereabouts: Do you like Indian food?”
“I LOVE Indian food,” cried Officer Giovanni.
“Well then, let’s rock!”
So we ignited our flashing lights, turned on the siren, and headed for India. We got there so fast that it almost made up for the late start that my oversleeping occasioned, because we took a Columbian shortcut.
“Welcome to the New World!” said the Indian Border Patrol. “May we see your passports?”
Officer Giovanni and I held up our police badges, each having the shape of a shining star; and they let us in affably.
“Thanks, guys,” I waved back at our new friends while we entered their vibrant country.
We arrived at the location of the first distress call on our list. It was an attractive, inviting building painted bright blue.
“Wow, it looks like the sky came down to earth and set up shop!” I exclaimed. “I really like this color.”
“So do I,” said my partner Giovanni, also staring in admiration.
So we entered, and a robo-butler addressed us: “I’m Devlin, your greeter. My twin, whose name is also Devlin, will be your server. Do you have a preference about seating? Outdoor or indoor? Well-lit or dim?”
“We appreciate the options,” I said. “Normally we’d ask for a very faint red glow to be the only available source of luminescence, so that everything should appear alluring yet slightly dangerous; but this time I think we’ll choose an indoor booth near several open windows with plenty of sunlight.”
“Step right this way,” said Devlin, the robo-butler’s twin.
“Oh, Devlin, sir,” Officer Giovanni now addressed our waiter, “my partner and I are actually responding to a distress call. You see, we’re policemen, and we’re currently on a job. So I’d like to inspect your kitchen and learn a trick or two from your cook, if no one objects.”
“That is perfectly fine,” said the robo-butler, while seating us. “I will let the staff know that you are here.”
So, after we enjoyed apéritifs, Officer Giovanni disappeared into the kitchen; and, after a short while, the dishes were brought out and placed on our table.
“This is the BEST Indian food I’ve ever tasted,” I said with wide eyes.
“I agree,” said Officer Giovanni; “and I didn’t end up doing anything to help — all I did was observe… That cook who’s working back there,” he gestured toward the kitchen, “she’s an absolute master: I’ve never seen such culinary genius. — Have you tried the crêpes?”
"The crêpes? Mon dieu, they’re la crème de la crème,” I cried: “They’re the chef-d’œuvre!”
“Yes, the crêpes are her specialty. This is a really exquisite place we have arrived at. I’m glad that we answered this call.”
“So am I,” I said, tasting and savoring more cuisine.
When finished, we exchanged contact info with the entire staff of the restaurant (excepting the Devlins), so as to keep in touch. Then we continued on to our next few missions in India, and we solved those distress calls as well.
§
Following this, we decided to take a few calls in England.
The first address on our list was a Cheese Shop in Giggleswick. When we opened the door, its tiny bell jingled, and the friendly clerk who was working behind the counter looked up with a smile that immediately became a frown:
“Do you have a warrant?” he snapped.
“No, no, we’re here to answer a distress call,” I explained. “Your establishment reached out to us and requested our assistance.”
The clerk remained frowning and yelled: “Kate! did you call the cops?”
“Oh, dear, sorry, yes, I did,” came a voice from the far regions of the vast dining area; “a great while ago — I actually forgot about it, till now: Forgive my not telling you.”
The clerk’s frown dissolved into a pleasant expression, and he addressed Giovanni and me in a friendlier tone:
“Sorry about that, officers — one can’t be too careful these days. Welcome, please come in and seat yourselves. The owner, Kate, will meet with you in a moment.”
“We can sit anywhere we like?” I asked, motioning with my hands to the vast expanse, which was riddled with small circular dining tables and comfy chairs.
“Anywhere you like,” replied the clerk.
So Officer Giovanni and I strolled over to a table where there was a wise and beautiful Ukrainian woman seated across from an equally wise and beautiful woman from Moscow; and these two women were engaged in a brilliant conversation. I raised a finger to get their attention…
The Ukrainian woman turned her face to us while declaiming; then she halted her speech and said with a charming accent: “Is there a problem, officers?”
“Sorry to interrupt you,” I gave a slight bow; “but my partner Giovanni and I (by the way, my own name is Bryan Ray — yes, the famous author… and now I’m also a cop!) — I say, my partner and I couldn’t help but overhear what you two dignitaries were talking about, and we found the subject of interest; therefore, we were wondering if you would permit us to seat ourselves at this table over here, to the left of yours, so that we might continue to marvel at the flow of your tête-à-tête.”
Both of these sophisticated women smiled brightly, and the one on the right said: “Please, take a seat.” And her companion added: “It would be lovely to have an audience.”
So I smiled and bowed deeply and thanked them; then my partner, Officer Giovanni, who was smiling as well, joined me in sitting at the table near theirs.
Now, Kate, the owner of the Cheese Shop, approached us and said:
“I appreciate you guys showing up on such short notice. What can I get for you?”
I myself was eager to catch more of the nearby table’s conversation, so, to speed the process of ordering, I replied: “To start, I’ll try the British Brie.”
Kate wrote this down; then she turned to my partner Officer Giovanni and said: “And for you?”
Giovanni answered quickly: “Lancashire, thanks!”
Then we sat in contentment and pondered what the women at the table nearby us continued discussing.
Kate soon returned with our cheeses: and we savored every bite; trying not to moan too loudly with pleasure, lest we miss any detail of our table-neighbors’ dialogue.
Thus, ultimately, we ended up accomplishing this mission in a way that left every citizen satisfied.
Then we went to our next distress call, in London: it happened to be another Cheese Shop. This time, I tried the Young Buck, and Giovanni ordered cheddar. Both were surprisingly good.
“Well, Gio,” I said to my partner, as we climbed into our patrol vehicle after sufficiently resolving several additional distress calls, “shall we go to the next place on our list, which is in—” I looked down to check the menu, “New Zealand? Or shall we place a bookmark in our adventures and instead enjoy a home-cooked meal with our family and friends?”
“I’m bushed, Bry,” said Officer Giovanni, “let’s call it a day.”
So we drove home in our police cruiser and parked in the driveway of the manor house that Giovanni and I share. The large glass French sliding doors automatically opened when we approached them; and, stepping inside, we greeted our respective families with big warm hugs. Then Officer Giovanni and I set to work preparing a feast, which we served for the evening meal. There were pastas and meats and olives and toasted breads and sauces and various deep-fried items. I can’t even remember all the food that we prepared, but it was excellent. Everyone present said that it was the best meal that they’d ever had. And we all went dancing afterwards.
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