Officer Nicolas and I were patrolling a neighborhood in Edina when we received a distress call on our hotline:
“Hello,” I said; “this is the squad car of Officer Nicolas and Officer Bryan Ray. How can we help you?”
“Yes, hello, I’m calling from a bachelor party…”
“A bachelor party? What’s that?” I said. (I really didn’t know.)
“You really don’t know?” said the caller.
“Yeah, I’m not joking,” I said. “What’s a bachelor party?”
My partner, Officer Nicolas, overhearing this, whispered to me from the driver seat: “Bry, a bachelor party is when a bunch of guys get together to celebrate a man’s last night of being single before he gets married.”
Now, as Officer Nicolas was whispering the above definition to help me out, the voice of the caller on the distress hotline explained at the same time: “It’s a social gathering for the purpose of honoring our pal Joshua, who’s marrying Mister Magdalene’s daughter tomorrow — this is Josh’s last night of freedom, because wedlock lasts till death (for, in heaven, there is neither marriage nor physical coupling, because everyone is made of non-solid matter which slushes past whatever it attempts to contact: if one tries to bump into a wall, one floats right thru it; and if one tries to get back in touch with one’s earthly wife, up there in heaven, even if she accepts one’s proposal, the attempted coupling goes awry, because it’s like trying to mix vapor with smoke: they just swirl together, and both participants are left dissatisfied); therefore a bunch of the fellas and I decided to throw a party for our mutual friend Josh — we shall spend the night doing all the things that Joshua will no longer be able to do, ever again, now that he is to be wed.”
“And what ‘things’ might those be,” I asked, genuinely curious; “in other words: What’s on the agenda for the evening?”
“Well,” said the caller, “all of us guys were first going to enjoy team-fishing for muskellunge — we rented a bunch of skiffs for the purpose. And, after that, we’re planning on heading over to the sweat lodge.”
“OK, sounds great,” I said. “We’re on the way. But, while we drive, do you mind explaining what the sweat lodge entails? My understanding is that it’s a dome-shaped hut used for steam baths. Am I warm?”
“Yes, you’ve got the idea,” said the caller. “Some people consider it a means of purification. One can focus deeply on whatever one desires to contemplate, while one is inside — what we bachelor-partiers are all going to do is just sit there and sweat. Like the name says: sweat lodge.”
“Ah, makes sense,” I said. “By the way, I think we’re here.”
Officer Nicolas parallel parked our patrol vehicle between two pickup trucks, and we climbed out the windows and met the group of men who summoned us.
“Gentlemen, this is Officer Bryan Ray,” said Officer Nicolas, “and I’m Officer Nicolas. We’re at your service.”
“Hey,” I added, “can I ask: Where are the women?”
“There are only guys tonight,” said the fellow whose voice I recognized from the distress call that we answered on our hotline. “It’s a bachelor party.”
“Oh,” I said, rather crestfallen.
So I and my partner Nicolas joined these men on their fishing expedition. They had arranged several skiffs along the shore of Lake Vermillion. We could fit six people to one skiff, so Officer Nicolas and I joined up with four other guys and pushed out onto the water. There were no women with us, so all of us menfolk spent the evening sitting in the boat together and fishing for muskellunge. There was no conversation, because (as they explained to us when we started) the sound of our voices would scare away all the sea life.
Then, after fishing, we all spent the rest of the night inside the sweat lodge. Again, no women were present, and the conversation was sparse.
When the bachelor party was over, the man in charge drew us aside and said “Thanks so much for helping us out with this, you two. How much do I owe ya?” And he opened up his wallet, which was bursting with banknotes.
“No, no, no,” I put up both of my hands in protest: “you don’t need to pay us a penny — it is our pleasure to serve and protect the citizens of this land; moreover, our services are entirely covered by your tax dollars: Officer Nicolas and I earn a decent salary for laboring as officers of the law.”
The man looked stunned. “You’re kidding,” he said, as his fingers stopped rifling thru his billfold’s paper money.
“Nope, Officer Bryan is right,” said my partner Nicolas Cage. “We can just shake hands and leave you now. You can return to your group of males and attend Joshua’s wedding — I’m assuming you’re all groomsmen — and Bry and I will climb back into our patrol vehicle and disappear into the sunset… or sunrise, rather, as it’s almost morning now, ha.”
So we did just as Officer Nicolas said: We shook hands with the guy who had initiated the original distress call, and filled out a minor amount of paperwork (to account for our solving of this dilemma); then we drove to the vanishing point and began our next mission.
NEXT MISSION:
Helping Folks
While cruising down the dirt road and leaving a wake of dust behind our patrol vehicle, I answered the citizen hotline again, because the phone rang:
“Hello?” I said.
“Yes, my name is Dove, and I am calling from the town of Rosemount. What happened is that there are too many old people here for me to take care of. Can you drive to the place where I’m currently situated, in the next fifteen minutes? I have a smoke break coming up, and I’d prefer not to miss it.”
“That’s an affirmative, my friend,” said Officer Nicolas, after grabbing the telephone’s handset out of my grip and answering before I could even get a word in edgewise. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes flat.” Then he slammed the handset down onto the plungers, to end the call, extremely confidently.
“Wow, I’ve never seen you take charge like that before,” I exclaimed.
“I just have a really good feeling about this mission,” said Officer Nicolas. “I could hear the caller’s voice more clearly than usual, despite the fact that YOU were holding the phone’s receiver; because whoever was speaking was enunciating their words very well, and the connection was good; so I followed my whim and reassured our caller myself and then hung up the telephone — I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, on the contrary,” I laughed: “I’m glad to be working with someone who’s so fired up and passionate!”
Officer Nicolas smiled and then slowed down and parallel parked in a suburb of Rosemount.
We climbed out the windows of our vehicle and looked around.
“Nice houses,” said Officer Nicolas.
“Yes, I agree,” I replied, while marveling at the fresh, clean air.
“Thanks for coming so promptly,” said the person who had summoned us, as he came walking towards us. “I’m Dove — I just spoke to you on the phone.” And we all shook hands. “As long as you’re here now,” Dove continued, “I’m going to take my smoke break. All you need to do is give the old folks of this town whatever they need. Some of them will ask for a home-cooked meal; some will want you to open up one or more of the child-proof lids on their bottles that contain various types of medication; some want a ride to the park, or to the movies; and some just need a hug. Do you think you can handle that?”
“Absolutely,” said Officer Nicolas, while patting Dove on the arm.
“How long does your smoke break last?” I said.
“Fifteen minutes,” said Dove, lighting up.
“Ah, that’s just the amount of time it took us to drive here,” I remarked.
Dove nodded while inhaling deeply of the just-lit cigarette.
So my partner Officer Nicolas and I took care of all the old people in Rosemount. We made their favorite meals for them and spent quality time with whoever requested it. They all told us that we did a really good job, when Dove’s smoke break was over; so Dove turned to us and said, while we were leaving:
“I’ve never seen them so happy. Thanks for your service, gentlemen.”
“No problem,” we saluted. Then we climbed back into the cop car, and our theme song began.
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