True Detective Stories

homer-eats-chili-pepperSo let me tell you about my Tuesday.

It was a cloudy day, but the birds were singing and the bees were trying to have sex with them – as is my understanding. It was my first day of the daywork tour, and I sleepily pulled into the parking lot. I walk toward the building and my backpack slips of my shoulder and falls to the sidewalk, shattering a brand new large bottle of hot sauce.

(I like hot sauce with my breakfast. Sue me.)

The glass bottle breaks into a billion tiny pieces and the hot sauce sprays everywhere. Imagine the Sonny murder scene from The Godfather. I scream, “F**K!” at the top of my lungs, waking everyone in a four-block radius, and interrupting the bird-on-bee sex.

There was a puddle of hot sauce at the bottom of my backpack, covering my shoes, and spattered on my black pants. The backpack went into the dumpster, obviously, but I couldn’t exactly go home to change my clothes. So I sat, reeking of hot sauce, for an eight hour day.

And speaking of that day…

When I walked in, still dropping F–bombs, I saw a note from the previous shift stating one detective called of sick. Five minutes later, the sergeant came in and said three other detectives were scheduled for a trial today.

Me: “So the only people working today are me and Kevin?”
Sergeant: “Yes.”

At the end of the shift, we handled twenty jobs, answered twice that many phone calls, and prayed for sweet, sweet death at least a dozen times.


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