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?”
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.