The other night, I woke up around 4:30 a.m., rolled over, and got nervous because my husband wasn't home.  For those who don't know, he's a Chicago cop, and he gets home from his normal shift around 2:30 a.m. - if there are no delays or problems.  If he's more than an hour late, I wonder if it was just a complicated arrest at the end of his shift, running into overtime, or a problem that I should be concerned about.

I started mentally replaying some of the funny stories he's told over the years to avoid worrying for a while.  I'll share a few of those stories, which will include a little bit of dialect for authentic flavor.

For the first five years he was on the job, Scott worked midnight to 8:00 a.m. in the 10th district, which combines two rather incompatible neighborhoods: North Lawndale and Little Village (also known as La Villita or South Lawndale).  They've both gone through a lot of changes over the years since they were first developed in the late 1800s. 

A huge railroad viaduct runs along 16th St. to the east, then swings southwest parallel to Ogden Ave. (old Route 66).  It acts as a de facto dividing line between the mostly black population of North Lawndale and the mostly Latino (mostly Mexican) Little Village.

Working midnights, he saw more than his share of stupidity committed by and between drunks, hookers, pimps, johns, drug dealers and buyers, and dysfunctional families.  Some of the bars closed at 2:00 a.m., and a few closed at 4:00, with corresponding spikes in drunken antics on the streets after those closing times.  After working the same beat for several months, he became familiar with characters on the streets and certain addresses where he was often sent in response to 311 calls.  These were the frequent flyers.  On the North Lawndale side of the district, some of the characters referred to him as skinny white office.

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2:13 a.m.:  It's a warm summer night in North Lawndale.  Scott and his partner get a radio dispatch from 911 call described as a guy taking a fall.  They go to the location, and a witness flags them down. 

Witness: "Hey, office, see dat hole over dere?"
Scott: "Yeah, what happened?"

They look at a spot in the middle of the street where a manhole cover is missing, presumably stolen by someone to sell at a scrap metal place.

Witness:  "Da guy was stumblin' down da street and pffft - he just disappear.  I look in da hole.  He don't say nuttin'."

They walk over to the hole.  Scott and his partner point their flashlights down into the sewer, where they see a guy lying motionless.  They call down to him.  He moans a litttle but doesn't respond.  They call for the fire department to assist with the extraction.  

After a few minutes, a unit responds.  A crowd of spectators gathers on the sidewalk, shuffling, pointing and commenting.  A fire dept. team goes down into the hole, straps him onto a backboard, and guides it upward with a rope as it's winched out of the hole.  As the guy on the board emerges at street level, alcohol fumes emanating from his body are strong to overcome any stink that got on him from lying in the sewer. 

The paramedics do a physical assessment and find no evidence of broken bones.  The guy's breathing, but in a stupor.  They use smelling salts to revive him.  In continuing their assessment, they come to the conclusion that he was so drunk that he totally relaxed when he fell.  How drunk?  Way beyond .20.  All he suffered as a result of the fall was a few bruises. 

I'd bet that he remembered nothing the next day about how he got those bruises.

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12:37 a.m.:   It's a warm summer night in North Lawndale, with lots of people out on the street.  Scott and his partner drive towards a regular drug corner on their beat.  A guy flags them down and starts talking when they pull up next to him.

Guy:   "'scuse me, office, I wanna make a complaint."
Scott:  "Okay, what's the problem?"
Guy:  "Ya see that guy over there?"  He points towards the corner.
Scott:  "Uh huh."
Guy:  "Says he's sellin' crack, only this stuff he sold me ain't crack.  's some other shit." 

He looks at the tiny vial in his hand with a puzzled and disgusted expression.

Scott:  "Um, are you sure  you really want to make a complaint about that?"
Guy:  [long pause - puzzled expression]  "Uh, never mind."  He stumbles away.

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3:59 a.m.:   It's a quiet winter night in Little Village.  Scott and his partner are cruising their beat.  There are no radio dispatches.  They arrive at an intersection as the light turns red.  They stop, waiting for the light to change. 

A van is stopped on the intersecting street.  It doesn't move after it gets the green light.  The stoplight goes through another cycle.  The van is still waiting, idling.  There's no other traffic.  The squad car stays put, and they observe the van.  The light changes.  The van gets the green light again.  No movement.  They watch the van through a few more light cycles, but it's still idling.

Scott pulls around the corner and stops the squad car next to the van.  He and his partner get out and approach the van from both sides.  Five Mexican guys are unconscious in there, sleeping or passed out.  The driver's head slumps over the steering wheel.  His foot is on the brake and the van is still in gear.

Scott and his partner decide to try to wake up the front seat passenger.  If they startle the driver and his foot suddenly comes off the brake pedal, there's no telling what might happen.  His partner taps his flashlight on the passenger side window a few times.  No response.  He tries a few more times.  Still nothing.  He quietly opens the door, reaches across the passenger, puts the van in park, then shuts off the engine.  The front seat passenger barely notices.

The alcohol fumes coming off the unconscious guys are strong enough for a contact high.  Way too many cervezas.  Scott and his partner gently shake the driver and front seat passenger, trying to wake them up.  The driver's eyes flutter open, and he starts becoming aware of the situation.

Driver:  "Buenos dias, officer."
Scott:  "Licensia y seguros, por favor."
Driver:  "Ees okay, no need that."

They talk for a few more minutes, but the driver still doesn't cooperate.  Meanwhile, Scott's partner is on the radio, calling for a paddy wagon to pick up the drunks.

Scott:  "Por favor."
Driver:  "Ees okay, I go home now."
Scott:  "No, you go to the station now."

The paddy wagon arrives.  It takes several minutes to transfer all the guys to the wagon.  Scott's partner moves the van and parks it, where the tow truck will pick it up and take it to the impound lot.  They drive back to the station and spend the next few hours on that arrest - doing a breathalyzer on the driver, fingerprinting him, taking statements, and doing all the paperwork.  There's a lot of paperwork on a DUI. 

The passengers sit in a holding cell until they're sober enough to get home.  The driver faces multiple charges:  drunk driving, expired license, no insurance.  Add on the towing and impound charges.  That was a very expen$ive night.

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Now Scott is home and sleeping.  There will be more stories over breakfast.