Yesterday was another manpower-heavy night at the division. We had four detectives working, but one could not receive active jobs because she was working a big, publicity-laden case. So we had a skeleton crew of three detectives.
At one point yesterday Philly reached a heat index of 105 degrees, so my tolerance for bullshit and idiocy was lower than Katy Perry’s dating standards. Naturally, there was an incident.
A person – I say “person” because it was either a chain-smoking woman, or a man gayer than a French horn – called the division and asked to speak with the captain’s clerk. The clerk had already left for the day, and when I told him/her – let’s call it “Pat” – Pat became very irate and started hissing expletives into the phone. Pat eventually calmed down long enough to demand the number for the Internal Affairs Division. Apparently Pat believed leaving at the end of your shift is an offense worthy of investigation.
Despite wanting to reach through the phone to gouge out Pat’s eyes, I very politely gave Pat the number it requested. Pat returned the courtesy by hanging up on me without a word…
Approximately ten minutes later, Pat calls back. Astonishingly, Internal Affairs told it to politely go pound sand. Undeterred, Pat angrily demanded the number for the Chief of Detectives. Most lowly detectives hardly know our chief’s name, let alone the number to the office, but I told Pat I would take a look. I eventually found the number.
I very politely gave Pat the number it requested. Pat returned the courtesy by hanging up on me without a word. Again.
Approximately five minutes after that exchange, Pat called back. This time, Pat irately demanded the number to the Police Commissioner’s Office. I explained a lowly detective does not have that number on hand, but I would give Pat the number to the City Hall operator, who would be able to transfer it from there.
I very politely gave Pat the number it requested. Before Pat could return the courtesy, I yelled, “You’re welcome!” into the phone before hanging up.
I should have pulled a “Trading Places,” and snapped, “Yeah, what are ya, ig’nant?”